Eve of Destruction: A Harry Devlin Mystery Page 4

  ‘Nothing to do?’

  He jumped at the sound of Jim Crusoe’s ironic enquiry. Lost in his reverie, he had not heard his partner opening the door to his room. ‘You’re always saying that solicitors should spend more time thinking and less time doing. I was simply following your advice.’

  ‘Difficult case? I gather you’ve seen a new client.’

  ‘And a private payer, you’ll be delighted to hear. No question of Steven Whyatt being eligible for Legal Aid.’

  ‘I like the sound of him already. What’s the problem, drinking and driving?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘Marital infidelity. Much more profitable for us.’

  Jim grunted. ‘Reason I looked in was to remind you about tomorrow evening’s entertainment. You haven’t forgotten, have you?’ Harry’s blank look was an instant giveaway. ‘Thought as much. You need to be at Empire Hall for six-thirty, remember?’

  ‘Oh God, the public relations training session?’ Harry groaned. A month earlier he promised to relieve Jim of prime responsibility for marketing the firm and as a token of good faith had signed up for a course laid on by the Liverpool Legal Group. He’d been motivated by a sense of duty rather than enthusiasm; he saw little scope for transforming Crusoe and Devlin into a centre of excellence in financial advice or corporate law.

  ‘I’ll expect a full report. Plus your proposals for a practice development strategy.’

  ‘Don’t be surprised if I spend the next month designing a corporate hologram and composing endless press releases about our latest investment in wastepaper baskets.’

  ‘As long as they bring in the business, you won’t hear me complain.’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath. The only time most of my clients pay any attention to advertising is when they are looking for ideas about who to burgle next.’

  As Harry walked into the lobby of his block of flats that evening, he spotted the duty porter chatting to a tall man, grey-haired but still handsome. Heaven, it seemed, had sent him an opportunity of finding out a little more about Becky Whyatt.

  ‘Evening, Griff. Hello, Theo. Surgery over?’

  Theo Jelf nodded pleasantly, as he might have done to a juvenile autograph-hunter. Harry’s natural instinct was to dislike charming men who wore expensive suits and natty bow ties, but if Theo was inclined to be self-satisfied, at least he had much to be self-satisfied about. Since Harry had first moved into Empire Dock after Liz’s desertion, Theo had become one of the best-known men in the city. On ‘Telemedics’, he chaired a panel of doctors who responded to viewers’ requests for enlightenment about symptoms chosen by the producers for their diversity and, on occasion, their bizarre nature. A closet hypochondriac, Harry found that many of the questions had him reaching for his own well-thumbed medical encyclopaedia. It was a book he hated yet could not live without. He was appalled by the number of serious ailments whose sole precursors appeared to be tiredness and a sore throat and regularly he convinced himself that he had succumbed to an incurable disease, luckless victim of a one in twenty thousand chance. The medical profession he regarded with the same awe with which, in a happier age, people had regarded their lawyers. Doctors had been so wise to cling to their mystique. Every now and then, in a state of near-terminal panic, he would haul himself off to the Medical Centre, where Theo would listen with a faint smile to his account of enigmatic symptoms before diagnosing a virus or overwork. Harry would depart with lavish thanks and a spring in his step, hopeful of eking out his three score years and ten after all.

  ‘Yes, I’ve said goodbye to my last hay fever sufferer for one day. And how are you?’

  In normal circumstances Harry would have been tempted to slip into the conversation whichever minor ache or pain had most recently sent him scurrying to the medicine cabinet. But this time he said, ‘Fine, fine. Though not as fit as I ought to be. I’ve put on a bit of weight since I gave up Sunday morning football. I had this idea of running up the stairs to the third floor instead of taking the lift.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ Theo said, easing into ‘Telemedics’ mode. His air of genial authority invested even his most patronising remarks with a touch of gravitas. ‘Excellent aerobic exercise. Work up a sweat for twenty minutes at a time, three or four days a week, and you won’t go far wrong.’

  They crossed the floor and Theo pushed the button to summon the lift. He looked enquiringly at Harry.

  ‘I feel a bit guilty about this,’ Harry said, ‘now that we’ve had the new security system installed. There’s a permanent record of my broken resolutions.’ He jerked a thumb at the closed circuit camera fixed to the ceiling above Griff’s desk which kept the entrance lobby to the flats under twenty-four-hour surveillance. FOR YOUR PROTECTION THESE PREMISES ARE MONITORED TWENTY-FOUR-HOURS A DAY proclaimed a notice which Harry found sinister as well as smug. ‘But I really will do better tomorrow.’

  ‘Famous last words.’

  ‘I mean it. I want to look after myself, not take up your time at the surgery. Though I gather there are compensations. Rumour has it that you’ve recruited a particularly glamorous receptionist.’

  Theo raised an eyebrow. ‘You mean Becky?’

  The lift doors opened. ‘That was the name, yes. Good-looking girl, so I hear. I’m led to believe that she makes a trip to the doctor’s a pleasure.’

  ‘If she’s keeping the patients happy, that’s certainly a bonus. Though I should say that if any of them have the wrong idea, they had better cool their ardour.’ The sign lit up to announce their arrival at the second floor and Theo moved forward. Glancing over his shoulder, he said, ‘I ought to point out that Becky Whyatt is a respectable married lady.’

  As the door closed behind him, Harry sighed. That’s what you think, Theo.

  Back in the comfortable semi-squalor of his flat, he had a cold shower as a penance for taking the lift rather than sprinting up the steps. As the jet of water smacked against his chest, he closed his eyes and thought about the love talk between Becky Whyatt and her boyfriend. At the outset he’d felt uneasy about eavesdropping on their private conversations, but despite himself, he had become fascinated. It was not a question of prurience but of a burning desire to find out what would happen next. The tape had much the same appeal, he supposed, as a soap opera. Lust, deceit, even a touch of mystery. Only violence was missing.

  He had brought the portable recorder home with him and, wrapped in a towel, he padded to the living room to start the tape running again. As he dried himself, he listened to the next episode in the series.

  Click.

  ‘Eight nine, eight nine.’

  ‘Darling, are you free to talk?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Despite Becky Whyatt’s brusque response, her lover was undismayed. ‘Fine, fine, I understand. Listen, I just wanted to say, Emma is out tonight and I can organise the nanny to look after Marcus. So if by any remote chance you could …’

  ‘I’m sorry, we don’t buy from telesales people.’

  He laughed. ‘I’ll call back later.’

  Click.

  ‘Eight nine, eight nine.’

  Silence.

  ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’

  Silence.

  ‘Hello? Hello?’

  Click.

  ‘Becky? I’m sorry, but we’re hellishly busy, I may be late again this evening.’

  She had perfected a low, complaining groan. ‘Well, Steve, thanks very much for giving me plenty of advance warning.’

  ‘There’s no need to take that tone. I’ll see you as soon as I can.’

  ‘I may not be here,’ she said quickly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I thought I might fit in an hour down at the gym.’

  ‘You don’t need to.’

  ‘I like to keep in shape. Though why I make the effort, I sometimes wonder.’ She was not a woman who relinquished the moral high ground easily.

  ‘I was only paying you a compliment. I don’t know why I bother
. I’ll be home by eight.’

  ‘You please yourself. I may not be back until late.’

  Click.

  ‘Eight nine, eight nine.’

  ‘All clear?’ her lover asked.

  She gave a tinkly laugh. ‘Yes, I can talk now.’

  ‘Who was there when I called before?’

  ‘A neighbour, collecting for charity. As soon as the phone rang, I could see her big ears flapping. Never mind, I think we’re going to be in luck tonight. Steve’s going to be late home as per usual and I said I might not be here when he finally condescended to turn up. I mentioned the gym. It was a spur of the moment idea. I couldn’t think of anything better.’

  ‘So when can we meet.’

  ‘I can be at the hotel by six. Don’t expect me to come all dolled up, though.’

  ‘I was hoping for that slinky black dress.’

  ‘You must be joking! It’s hardly the outfit for a trip to the gym. Jeans and a tee shirt are more in keeping.’

  ‘No suspenders and high heels?’

  She giggled. ‘Be serious! How would I explain them if Steve somehow happened to see inside my bag? Rather a giveaway, don’t you think?’

  ‘I suppose so. Anyway, six sounds fine. Gives us plenty of time.’

  She paused, then said urgently, ‘But not enough for me, darling. It will never be enough.’

  Click.

  ‘Eight nine, eight nine.’

  Silence.

  ‘Hello? Who’s calling?’

  Silence.

  ‘Look – who is this?’ Her question blended anger and apprehension. ‘Listen, I don’t need this. I’m going to hang up.’

  Silence.

  Click.

  Harry perched on the edge of his sofa and belted his jeans. He must go: already he was cutting it fine if he wanted to be at the Adelphi before Dame’s tour began. He was looking forward to seeing his old friend, as well as Kim. Yet it was a wrench to stop listening, for he had become intrigued by Becky Whyatt and her lover. As he ran a razor across his jaw, he tried to picture them. Becky he saw as a restless blonde, the man as having muscles developed on the playing fields of a second-rate public school, glib and good-looking in a way that Steven Whyatt could never match.

  He finished shaving and sprinkled aftershave liberally over his chin. Hope springs eternal, he thought. He was not sure why he bothered; one of the things he liked about Kim was that she was not someone likely to be impressed by any efforts he made to smooth over his rough edges. It was, perhaps, just as well. On his way out, he tossed the tape recorder on to a chair. There would be plenty of time to catch up with the continuing story. He even had a second mystery to solve. Not only did he wonder about the identity of Becky Whyatt’s boyfriend, but also that of the caller who could not be persuaded to speak at all.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Suicide, accident – or murder?’

  Dame’s voice was hushed. She looked round at the dozen intrepid souls who had survived until this last leg of her murder trail, as if challenging them to cast new light on the mysterious death by arsenic poisoning of the Victorian cotton broker James Maybrick. Harry gave an exaggerated shrug of the shoulders and she grinned back at him while Kim strove in vain to contain a giggle. None of the murder hunters spoke. They were all standing outside Battlecrease House in Aigburth, where Maybrick had lived and died. The Japanese and American members of the group were busy fiddling with their camcorders whilst the locals soaked up the atmosphere. A loud crack from behind the brick wall on the other side of the wall made everyone jump, but it was simply the sound of willow striking leather during summer evening cricket practice.

  ‘One thing is for sure,’ Dame said sternly, ‘the puzzle will fascinate students of crime for generations to come – and they may ask themselves as well: can it be that Maybrick took to his grave the secret of the most famous killings of them all?’ She paused for effect before adding in a hushed tone, ‘Is it possible that he was Jack the Ripper?’

  An acned ghoul in spectacles who had throughout the evening proved himself something of a know-all said, ‘Wasn’t that story about the Ripper’s diary being found in Battlecrease House supposed to be a hoax?’

  Dame scowled at him. She never liked having her thunder stolen. ‘We can be sure,’ she said in the elaborately rehearsed manner she often adopted when giving the freest rein to her imagination, ‘that we have not yet heard the last word about the link between Liverpool and the Whitechapel murders. James Maybrick was a drug addict and a philanderer, don’t forget. To my mind, he’s a much likelier suspect than the assorted freemasons and minor Royals so often touted by people with an axe to grind – or a book to sell.’

  It was a stirring climax to a bravura performance in which she had portrayed her native city as a sort of homicidal theme park and Harry succumbed to an uncontrollable urge to applaud. To his surprise, the tourists in the group followed his lead and even the myopic smart aleck reluctantly joined in. Dame took it as her due, treating the assembly to a ravishing smile and saying a few words of farewell in a manner intended to make it clear that she would not regard gratuities as offensive.

  As the gathering dispersed, she gravitated to Harry and Kim. ‘Well? How did I do?’

  Harry appraised her. Since their last meeting she had changed the colour of her hair to an exotic red, but there was nothing artificial about the curves so generously displayed by a check shirt that seemed to lack the usual complement of buttons. ‘Edgar Lustgarten must be revolving in his grave,’ he said.

  ‘Edgar who? Was he a Merseyside murderer?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘If he was, you would certainly know about him.’

  ‘You must have done an enormous amount of research,’ Kim said.

  Harry grinned and Dame’s cheeks turned a guilty pink. ‘I must be honest,’ she said, ‘I may have added a little local colour here and there along the way this evening.’

  ‘I thought the suggestion that Lord Lucan hid out in Blundellsands after killing Sandra Rivett was overdoing things a bit,’ Harry said.

  Dame chuckled. ‘It pays to keep the customer satisfied. By the way – do you think Florence Maybrick did poison her husband?’

  ‘If she didn’t,’ Kim said, ‘she should have done. He may not have been Jack the Ripper, but everyone agrees he was a scoundrel and a hypocrite.’

  ‘If you’d been his lawyer,’ Harry said, ‘you would have found something good to say for him. No, I doubt whether Florence was a murderer.’

  ‘So she served fifteen years for a crime she didn’t commit?’ Dame asked, with genuine horror in her voice.

  ‘She wasn’t the first – and certainly not the last,’ Kim said.

  ‘Come on,’ Harry said, ‘I reckon we’ve had enough creative criminology for one night. Where’s the nearest pub?’

  An hour later he was bringing another round of drinks back from the crowded bar in Kim’s local, round the corner from Sudley Art Gallery. Looking at Dame as he handed her a Bacardi and coke, he cast his mind back to their last meeting, on the day of Liz’s funeral. In those days Dame was earning a few pounds as a mud wrestler, whilst she hoped for a decent acting role that never came her way. Eventually, tiring of waiting for work and of her then boyfriend’s reluctance to leave his wife, she had headed south to London. All evening she had been regaling them with bawdy anecdotes about life in the capital, but when Kim slipped away to the loo her tone became more serious.

  ‘I had to come home in the end. I couldn’t take it any more. Too much sleaze and sadness.’ She paused for effect. ‘And that was only the fellers I went out with.’

  ‘You’ll never change, love. At least I hope not.’

  ‘You’re probably right, you bugger. Do you know, I even got off one night with a junior minister?’

  ‘How low can a woman sink?’

  ‘I had visions of becoming a kiss-and-tell bimbo,’ Dame said dreamily. ‘Hiring a publicity agent to sell my story to the gutter press
while the chap concerned begged his wife and kids to gather round for a stand-by-your-man photocall.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘He picked me up in a club in Soho, didn’t he? He was a bit tired and emotional, but we stumbled out into the street, hailed a taxi and headed back to my place.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Passed out on me before we even crossed the river, would you believe? I had to get the driver to take him back to Westminster. As the cabbie said, that’s the one place a drunken pillock can get a little respect. Just my luck, eh? Anyway, that settled it. I decided to come back to the North. This is my city. I belong here. I don’t feel like a stranger, the way I always did in London.’

  Harry nodded. He loved Liverpool too. Its shabby resilience was part of his genetic code. ‘And how did you come to meet Paul Disney? Or is it, as Dr Watson might have said, a story for which the world is not yet prepared?’

  ‘I’m afraid we met in a house of ill repute.’

  ‘It belonged to a Manchester United supporter?’

  ‘Not quite that bad. When I first arrived back, I had nowhere to stay. A friend of a friend offered me digs until I fixed myself up. Lovely woman, looks a bit like the kind sister in The Sound of Music. Turns out she’s a part-time brothel keeper on a recruitment drive. I soon shook the dust of that place from my feet, I can tell you, but not before I’d bumped into Paul. Quite literally, as it happens. He was skulking around in the back garden my first evening there, when I was chucking my back numbers of Time Out into the wheelie-bin. From the first we got on like a house on fire. He told me he was on the lookout for one of my landlady’s regular clients. A member of the judiciary – you’ll never guess who.’

  She bent her head to his ear and whispered a name. Harry stared at her in amazement. ‘I thought he was gay.’

  Dame laughed. ‘The story never made it to print. Three quarters of everything Paul writes finishes up on a spike. Hazard of the job, he calls it. And, like me, he is prepared to admit that there are times when he finds the facts need a little embellishment. Journalism isn’t the ideal job for a creative spirit. No wonder he flips occasionally and does something off the wall. Anyway, since that first meeting he and I have been having fun together. I don’t suppose it will last. Never does, does it? All the same, I’m glad to be back.’