Eve of Destruction: A Harry Devlin Mystery Read online

  ‘Your two o’clock’s here,’ said Suzanne the switchboard girl.

  An ominously early arrival, Harry thought as he glanced at his watch. This fellow was probably the sort who would expect not only a prompt and crisp answer to every impossible question but also an unequivocal assurance that his legal entitlements were watertight. Resignedly, he glanced at the note his secretary had paperclipped to the virgin file. Mr Steven Whyatt, she said, had been recommended to the firm by their bank manager. A token piece of reciprocation, no doubt, for the overdraft charges he extorted from Crusoe and Devlin each month. Apparently Whyatt ran a nursery on the riverbank near Hale, but it seemed that everything in his garden centre was not lovely. He was seeking advice about his matrimonial position.

  Harry sighed as he wandered out to meet the man. Another marriage heading for the breaker’s yard of the civil courts. He knew at first hand the empty sense of failure that accompanies any marital split and although he saw his role as helping to pave the way to an amicable settlement, he was all too well aware of the likelihood of acrimony and of how easy it was for a divorce lawyer to end up as a cross between a psychotherapist and a hired gun.

  Steven Whyatt was fidgeting in his seat like a hyperactive teenager, darting glances towards the door as if he was having second thoughts about his visit to Crusoe and Devlin. Harry introduced himself and they shook hands. His new client was a bony man with a high brow and a vaguely intellectual air. A prominent Adam’s apple was revealed by an open-neck shirt of distinctly better quality than most of the firm’s clients could afford. He blinked several times as he said hello, as though startled to find himself face to face with a solicitor. Or perhaps Harry simply didn’t measure up to his preconceived idea of what a solicitor should look like.

  ‘Mark Brown told me you could help,’ Whyatt said as they stepped into Harry’s room. He had a clumsy way of moving, as if permanently off balance. His tone, like his gait, was awkward and uncertain.

  Harry waved him into a chair. ‘I gather you need advice about your marriage. Would you like to tell me about the problems that bring you here?’

  ‘My – my wife is having an affair.’ His slight stammer reinforced the impression of an overgrown sixth-former.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t, would I?’

  ‘How long has this been going on?’

  ‘A few weeks, I’d say. I only began to suspect a short time ago.’ Whyatt’s fingers danced on the desktop like nervous children. ‘She’s not – been interested, if you know what I mean.’

  Harry felt a sudden spurt of sympathy for the man. Easy to guess that Whyatt hated making the admission that his wife no longer fancied him. ‘And have you talked things over?’

  ‘Listen, I’m not after marriage guidance if that’s what you’re suggesting. Of course we haven’t talked it over. Besides, she’d never admit she had another man even if I challenged her. She can lie like a politician.’

  ‘Do you know who she’s sleeping with? No? Then how can you be certain about the affair?’

  ‘Because,’ Whyatt said, ‘I’ve heard them talking about it.’ His Adam’s apple bobbed neurotically and Harry found himself having to make an effort to look away and into his client’s face.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Whyatt pulled a boxed cassette tape from the pocket of his slacks and tossed it across the desk. ‘Exhibit A.’

  Oh God, thought Harry, it’s going to be one of those cases. ‘You’ve been recording their calls?’

  ‘I know enough about electrics to be able to wire up a telephone. I’ve rewound the tape to the first conversation. Do you have a machine you can use to play it back?’

  ‘Yes, but I really don’t think I need to trouble you …’

  ‘You must hear it,’ Whyatt urged. ‘Listening to Becky talk will tell you more about her in five minutes than I could in fifty.’

  Harry sighed. ‘If you insist.’ He had little time for people who bugged their spouses so as to glean the evidence to drive a hard bargain in divorce negotiations. But he sensed Whyatt would not take no for an answer and so he took a little black recorder from his desk drawer and pressed play.

  Click.

  ‘Eight nine, eight nine.’

  ‘I’m going to be late home tonight.’

  A long drawn-out sigh. ‘Not again, Steve!’

  ‘I’m not over the moon about it myself, but we’re expecting the VAT inspector tomorrow and the paper work hasn’t been sorted yet. There’s a hiccup with some invoices and …’

  ‘All right, all right. Spare me the tedious details. So when can I expect you?’

  ‘Half nine, maybe ten.’

  ‘As late as that?’

  ‘I already said …’

  ‘Oh please, let’s not go over old ground. There’s no point, is there? I’ll take something out of the freezer.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll see you then.’

  The only answer was an elaborate sigh.

  Whyatt reached across the desk and flicked pause. He gave an embarrassed giggle. ‘Domestic bliss, eh?’

  Harry was replaying the woman’s voice in his mind. Had he imagined it, or was her weary tone a touch contrived? He frowned. ‘Wouldn’t many women complain more loudly? She sounds a little subdued, that’s all.’

  ‘She – she cheered up later that same afternoon. As you will hear.’

  Click.

  ‘Eight nine, eight nine.’

  ‘Becky, it’s me.’ The man’s voice was a confident contrast to Whyatt’s jerky tone.

  ‘Well, hello. I wasn’t expecting you to call.’

  ‘I said I would, didn’t I?’ A chuckle. ‘You ought to have more faith in me. Especially as I’m calling to ask if you would be free to have lunch with me again tomorrow. How about my booking a table for two at Dimitri’s in the Albert Dock? You finish work for the day at one o’clock, don’t you? We could meet up at the restaurant at ten past.’

  ‘Mmmm. I’m not sure. A couple of people from the Medical Centre go shopping round the dock complex quite often. If they saw us together … well, you can guess what they would think.’

  ‘I’d be flattered.’

  ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself! But seriously, I’d rather go somewhere different. More discreet.’

  ‘You’re right, of course. How about walking over to the city centre? Do you like the Ensenada?’

  ‘Pushing the boat out, aren’t you?’

  ‘Nothing but the best for you, Becky. There’s an alcove at the back with a couple of tables that Pino keeps for his regular customers. We won’t be disturbed.’

  ‘Sounds like a good idea.’

  ‘Oh, I’m full of good ideas. That’s settled, then. Excellent. Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.’

  She made a noise midway between a coo and a gurgle. ‘Flattery will get you everywhere.’

  ‘I hope so, Becky. Believe me, I hope so.’

  ‘And so,’ Whyatt said grimly, ‘to bed.’

  The little room had become unbearably hot. The ancient fan which had been struggling to keep the temperature down for the past few days had whirred its last the previous afternoon; but the lack of air was not the only reason for Harry’s discomfort. Suddenly the recording had seized his attention, but he did not yet want his client to realise how or why. He said helplessly, ‘We don’t need to listen to all …’

  ‘I – I think you ought to hear the evidence.’

  Click.

  ‘Eight nine, eight nine.’

  ‘You should be at work.’

  ‘I called in sick.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I don’t think I’ve ever felt better. I – just needed some time to myself after yesterday. I got back from the hotel so late that Steve was home before me. I had to tell him I’d spent the afternoon with his brother’s wife.’

  ‘Be careful. He may check up on you.’

>   ‘No danger. Michelle is a dear friend. I often think of her as the sister I never had. She’d always back me up. Besides, Steve can’t bear her. He thinks she’s shallow – just because she uses a sunbed and likes nice clothes. He’s so prejudiced, he never talks to her if he can help it.’

  ‘And so how are you spending your free morning?’

  ‘I’m still in bed, if you must know.’

  ‘You’re getting me interested already.’

  ‘Behave! Although …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m glad you are still interested after yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘More than ever,’ he said fervently. ‘Promise.’

  ‘Then everything’s perfect,’ she breathed.

  ‘Becky.’ He paused. ‘You know – what we did in the bathroom?’

  She giggled. ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘Have you ever done that with another man?’

  Whyatt snapped off the recording. His pallid cheeks had reddened. ‘I – I’ll spare you the rest of the sordid banalities, Mr Devlin. I’m afraid my wife’s lovetalk is based on a lifetime spent reading slushy romantic novels and watching television movies. Perhaps now you can understand why I need your advice.’ He bit his lip. ‘I don’t know what to do. And one of the worst things is – I still don’t even know the name of the bastard she’s sleeping with.’

  Harry bit his lip. Neither do I, he thought. But I certainly recognise his voice.

  Chapter Two

  ‘So how can I help you, Mr Whyatt?’ Harry leaned back in his chair as he flicked through a mental filing cabinet of casual acquaintances, trying to fit the suave tones of Becky’s boyfriend to a face with a name. The man had the assurance of one in whom a pricey education had imbued an unashamed sense of his own self-worth. Not a typical Crusoe and Devlin client, then, but there were plenty of other possibilities. Liverpool was the largest village in Britain: Harry had been born and bred within a stone’s throw of Penny Lane and over the years he had come to know local people in every walk of life. Somewhere or other he had encountered Steven Whyatt’s rival – and an elusive memory told him that he had not cared for the fellow.

  ‘I need to find out where I stand legally.’

  ‘Do you want to seek a divorce?’

  ‘Would it be difficult?’

  ‘Not if you have evidence of adultery. Easy enough to convince a court about irretrievable breakdown of the marriage if you can show that your wife is sleeping with someone else.’

  ‘Even though I can’t put a name to him?’

  ‘That’s no problem so far as the law is concerned. But if it really is nagging at you, hire a private detective. I can recommend a good man.’

  ‘I – I’m not sure we need to resort to that.’ Whyatt wrinkled his nose, as if taping his wife’s conversations was socially acceptable, but hiring a snoop to follow her was a disgraceful invasion of privacy.

  ‘Is the marriage over, as far as you are concerned?’

  ‘Not necessarily. I still need to think about that. Right now, I want advice on what my options are.’

  ‘If you’re not sure about splitting up,’ Harry said gently, ‘and you don’t care for the sound of conciliation, I may not be able to offer a great deal of assistance.’

  ‘Tell me about the money side. How much would a divorce cost me?’

  I wondered when that question would crop up, Harry thought. He reached for his pen. ‘I’ll need to take a few details from you. Let’s start with the personal bits and pieces, then talk about the value of your house and business, shall we?’

  After ten minutes of careful probing, he had a sketch of the Whyatts’ lives. Steven Geoffrey Whyatt was thirty-five, his wife eight years younger. He was her second husband and they had been married for three years. There were no children.

  ‘We agreed at the outset to wait for a while. She was still young, there seemed to be plenty of time. A couple of years ago, though, I thought we ought to start doing something about it. Even then – well, let’s just say things weren’t all plain sailing in the marriage. Having a child might have helped us get it together again. But she always had a reason why it wasn’t a good idea to tie ourselves down yet with a squealing baby.’

  Harry did not think much of babies as a solution for marital discord, but he felt a flicker of sympathy for his client. He was familiar with the clues to marriage breakdown. His own wife Liz had been careless about covering her tracks after she had started to roam. Harry would never have dreamed of any form of covert surveillance. He had preferred to ignore the warning signs, telling himself it was simply a phase in life she was going through and that sooner or later everything would turn out for the best. But then she had left him for a lover and all too soon had paid in full for her wonderlust. She had been stabbed to death one night and her body left to rot in one of the city’s darkest and dirtiest back streets.

  Better concentrate on the present. ‘About the business,’ he prompted.

  It was a family concern, Whyatt explained. His father had been a nurseryman and had set up by the shore near Hale lighthouse in the sixties. Steven had joined him after leaving college and had gradually developed a specialisation in landscape design. As the business grew, his elder brother Jeremy had abandoned his career in the army to join them. Meanwhile Steven had won a couple of commissions from landowners who wanted to add the attraction of a maze to their grounds. Before long conventional landscaping had taken a back seat as he had become enchanted by the myriad possibilities of maze design.

  Harry’s eyebrows rose at this. ‘That’s big business?’

  ‘If you have clients who are able to pay – but the main appeal is creating a brand-new labyrinth. Even though I’m happy to use old ideas as a starting point, I like each maze to be unique.’ For the first time since his arrival, Whyatt was speaking with real enthusiasm and his stammer had disappeared, but his expression soon clouded again. ‘Jeremy is quite ruthless, he would like to cut the maze business out – insists it’s a luxury when times are hard. But he has nothing to complain about. He inherited a majority shareholding in the business when our father died, despite the fact that I was the one who had worked in the business from day one. Unfortunately, Jeremy was always Dad’s favourite.’

  ‘And your wife? Is she closely involved with the firm?’

  ‘Not at all. She’s a city dweller by instinct. Her parents died when she was young and she grew up in a children’s home in Kirkdale. I suppose she found it hard; she’s often said she had to be strong to survive. That’s why, all through our marriage, she’s wanted to keep her own job on. When we first met, she was working as a receptionist for a solicitors’ practice in Liverpool, an outfit called Rosencrantz and Fowler. I suppose you know them. They have been the family lawyers for years, though I became disillusioned after Ed Rosencrantz drafted Dad’s will. He might have persuaded the old man to treat Jeremy and me equally.’

  ‘Maybe he did his best. At the end of the day, a solicitor’s job is to carry out his client’s wishes.’

  Whyatt pursed his lips in disapproval. ‘Anyway, Jeremy and I were joint executors. I met Becky one day when we called in to swear an affidavit. I didn’t have a girlfriend and my widowed mother had recently died. I’ve never been much of a ladies’ man, but it was time for me to settle down. She’s an attractive woman and I fell for her. I didn’t think I’d have much chance, but her decree absolute had just come through and I suppose she saw me as a better bet than her first husband. By all accounts he was a drifter with a terrible temper. We married within ten weeks of first setting eyes on one another.’

  ‘And she still works at the same firm?’

  ‘No. When Ed Rosencrantz had his heart attack and died, she decided to move on. She didn’t care much for Oswald Fowler. Not that I blamed her – Fowler is famous for being full of himself, which is why I got your name from Mark Brown. Actually, I suspect what really upset Becky was that Fowler doesn’t seem to have made a pass at her.’

  Ha
rry nodded. Like his late partner, Ossie Fowler was not a man who would scruple about having an affair with a girl he employed – according to scurrilous rumour, it was almost a condition of service – but one thing was certain: his was not the voice on the tape.

  ‘And where is she now?’

  ‘She has a similar job at the Empire Dock Medical Centre.’

  ‘I know it.’ In fact, it was his own surgery, adjacent to the block which housed his flat. ‘Have you met her colleagues? Might she be involved with any of them?’

  ‘I can’t see it. Three doctors are in practice together: a woman called Faith Barlow, a Pakistani, Parvez Mir and the senior partner, Theo Jelf. You must know his name, even if you haven’t seen him on the box.’

  ‘Theo’s my own GP, as it happens, as well as a neighbour of mine. He has a flat in the Empire Dock complex, it’s handy for the television studio. Mind you, I gather he also owns a mansion out in Cheshire.’