Eve of Destruction: A Harry Devlin Mystery Page 5

  ‘Liverpool’s a better place now that you’re home again,’ Harry said and meant it.

  She brushed her palm lightly over his hand. ‘It’s good to see you. I was so glad when I found out Kim’s a friend of yours. When I first found out that Paul was being prosecuted, I tried to persuade him to instruct you. But he told me that Kim had come highly recommended and he invited me to come along and meet her. I must say I was impressed.’

  ‘I gather the chap whose exhibit he ruined is determined to press charges.’

  ‘It’s so small-minded. Besides, Strauli is hardly a Scouse Picasso. The critics love him but Paul feels it’s the old story of the Emperor’s new clothes. He reckons Strauli has as much artistic integrity as a second-hand photocopier salesman. So he decided to add a bit of fluid of his own to Mortal Sparrow. He describes it as a co-mingling of artistic materials, turning the original work into a joint venture, pulsing with energy and life.’

  ‘And did the reviewers rave?’

  Dame guffawed, a deafening sound that silenced half the pub. Her whole body rocked and another blouse button popped, but she didn’t care. ‘Even they figured out he was simply taking the piss.’

  Harry grinned. ‘Well, Kim may be able to get him off with a conditional discharge. She’s a good lawyer.’

  ‘Good looker, too. I like her a lot, although I wouldn’t say I’ve quite figured out what makes her tick. Still waters run deep, if you ask me, but you must know her much better. Sleeping with her yet?’

  Harry shook his head and she gave a theatrical groan. ‘What’s holding you back? She cares for you. Believe me, I can tell.’

  ‘Women’s intuition?’

  ‘Don’t scoff, it doesn’t suit you. No, Kim is a lovely lady. And my guess is, it’s time you had a steady relationship. Am I right in thinking there’s been no-one serious – since Liz died?’

  He shrugged. ‘There have been one or two who might … well, things didn’t work out.’

  ‘Liz is a hard act for anyone to follow.’

  He nodded. Dame had known his wife as well as any woman alive, had been able to see beyond the feckless exterior to the real person beneath whom Harry had adored. Sometimes, when he woke up on dark nights alone in the bedroom of his flat, he thought he would never love anyone again. It was a prospect he dreaded and yet sometimes thought inevitable: that he would fail to find anyone who could measure up to the standards of the wife who had deserted him.

  ‘I’ve been taking things one step at a time.’

  ‘Fair enough. Quite apart from your own reserve, I have the feeling she’s been badly hurt in the past. But don’t hasten too slowly, Harry. I gather you’ve been seeing each other for months.’

  ‘On and off.’

  ‘Maybe you ought to get a move on.’

  ‘Are you matchmaking?’

  ‘No fear. Last time I tried setting up a blind date, I invited a bloke I’d shared a tumble dryer with in the laundrette to dinner with this girl I’d met filling shelves at the supermarket a week or two earlier. They were both lonely, seemed to have plenty in common. I felt I was doing a good deed.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Turned into a bit of a disaster. They’d divorced each other six months earlier. She’d fooled me by changing back to her maiden name. I finished up eating on my own.’ She laughed. ‘Talk about true love not running smooth.’

  Kim reappeared. ‘I’m seeing Paul tomorrow afternoon, did he tell you?’

  Dame drained her glass. ‘To put in some more work on his defence? Yes, he mentioned it. And now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll slope off to put in some more work on him during what is left of this evening. Here’s my home number, Harry. Keep in touch.’

  ‘And you keep an eye out for Lucky Lucan.’

  Kim waved to Dame and then said to him, ‘Would you like to come back for coffee? Or have you anything else planned?’

  ‘The only date I had was at the takeaway on the Strand.’

  She smiled. ‘I don’t have to feed you as well, do I?’

  ‘Coffee will be fine. Thanks.’

  Although he told himself not to read too much into the invitation, when he slipped his hand into hers he thought he felt a brief pressure in response. They strolled through the quiet streets, not needing to disturb the night with idle conversation. A couple of times he stole a covert glance at her. The Mediterranean sun had tanned her a deep brown and she was simply dressed in white lace-up vest, leggings and slip-ons. The outfit suited her slim figure and he realised how much he wanted her. He urged himself to control his longing. For God’s sake, don’t take anything for granted. You don’t want to end up eating a fish and chip supper on your own.

  She lived in a maisonnette a short walk from the park and its interior decor – Swedish furniture and a colour scheme in pastel blues and greens – seemed to him to reflect her personality: attractive, yet cool. He wondered if tonight might offer a real chance to get to know her. It was the first time he had visited her home and whilst she put the kettle on, he studied the contents of her bookshelves and flicked through a cabinet filled with compact discs. He had a theory that people gave themselves away through their taste in music and books and he was keen to find clues to help him understand her. He would have expected to see 10 Rillington Place, half a dozen Virago classics and Joan Baez albums, but the paperbacks by Daphne du Maurier as well as the Roberta Flack records came as a surprise. Perhaps she had a romantic streak after all.

  ‘Like to listen to something?’ she asked as she returned bearing a tray.

  ‘You choose.’

  He was glad when, knowing his tastes, she picked out a disc of sixties hits, but the first track was a protest song rather than something sweet and soulful. Barry McGuire complaining his way through ‘Eve of Destruction’ was not his idea of seduction music.

  ‘What sort of day have you had?’ she asked, sitting down beside him on the sofa.

  He was acutely conscious of the closeness of her. ‘The usual,’ he said. ‘A new divorce client who insisted that I listen to tapes of his wife chatting to her fancy man. Funny thing is, I’m sure I recognise lover boy’s voice, but I can’t put a name to it yet.’

  ‘Another client, perhaps?’

  ‘No. It will come to me sooner or later. Normally I consign snoopers’ tapes to a drawer, but there was something about this one that held my attention. Difficult to explain. The lovebirds are passionate, but there’s more to it than that.’

  ‘There usually is with adultery.’

  The tightness in her voice surprised him. In her professional life, she had surely seen enough of adultery to take a detached view of it. ‘This isn’t just the thrill of the affair, the chance that they might so easily be found out. Somehow there’s an undercurrent, a dangerous edge, to what the woman says … I can’t fathom it yet. Mind you, I haven’t reached the end of the tape.’

  ‘Your man’s the jealous type?’

  ‘Definitely. He’s an odd character – a bit jumpy, but he must be talented. He is a landscaper with a speciality in designing mazes, would you believe?’

  ‘I can tell that you’re intrigued.’

  ‘It’s a human drama, no question. I ought to be ashamed of myself, I know. I’m not sure what the aural equivalent of a voyeur is.’

  ‘Auditeur, perhaps?’

  ‘Too much like a bloody accountant.’

  She laughed and put down her coffee cup. He drew her towards him and they began to kiss. After a while he unfastened her cotton vest and slid his hands beneath her bra. He was suddenly aware of the urgent beating of his heart. As he touched the softness of her breasts, she traced a finger across his cheek.

  ‘Harry, shall we go to the bedroom?’

  He didn’t need to answer. Kicking off her moccasins, she brushed his lips with hers and led him upstairs. The curtains drawn, she stood before him, bathed in the subdued glow from a single wall light. Her skin was luminous and she was breathing faster than before. As they kissed a
gain, he took off the vest and slipped the straps of her bra from her shoulders. She eased off the rest of her clothes and sat next to him on the edge of the bed. They gazed at each other and she began to unbutton his shirt, giving him a smile so timid that it made him think of a virgin girl with her first lover.

  ‘You mean a great deal to me,’ he whispered.

  ‘And you to me.’

  The tremor in her voice caused him a pang of unease, but as he stroked her fine hair she sighed and closed her eyes. After a little while he bent his head and touched a nipple with his tongue.

  ‘There’s nothing to fear, Kim. Nothing to fear.’

  She did not speak, but as his hands started to glide over her smooth flesh, he felt her body stiffen. Instinct told him at once that everything was about to go wrong. With a sudden movement she pulled away from him and threw herself on to the counterpane. She was crying softly, face buried in the pillow.

  Aghast, he lay down by her side, knowing better than to touch her or to utter a word. He could not guess what mistake he had made. During all the years he had known her, she had always seemed self-possessed and in control. To see her in such distress hurt him like a physical pain; he would much rather she had slapped his face and told him that she was not interested. But she had wanted him, of that he was certain, and he had been so desperate not to make a false move.

  Presently, the sobs began to subside. He found the courage to reach out a hand and touch her cheek. ‘It’s all right, love.’

  ‘No, it isn’t, Harry.’

  ‘Will you tell me what’s the matter?’

  She hauled herself up and sat cross-legged on the pillow. Tears glistened on her face. ‘I promise, it’s nothing to do with you. Please believe that.’

  ‘Can we talk things over?’

  ‘Not tonight, Harry. It – it’s not the right time.’

  He nodded. She was naked and vulnerable and consumed by a misery he could not hope to comprehend. ‘Would you like me to stay? I can sleep on the sofa if you do.’

  He saw her consider the idea, unable to imagine what thoughts were running through her mind. His stomach was churning. Eventually she said, ‘I think … perhaps it would be better for us both if you were to leave.’

  Her words cut him. ‘Okay, if you want me to go, Kim, of course I’ll go.’

  ‘I told you – it isn’t your fault.’

  He wished he could be sure she was telling the truth. Dazed as well as distraught, he wished he could be sure of anything. ‘I’m sorry if …’

  ‘Don’t apologise! You’ll only make me feel even worse.’

  At the bedroom door he turned. She was still sitting on the bed, her arms folded and covering her small breasts. ‘Perhaps we can have a word on the telephone sometime,’ he said.

  She nodded, evidently not trusting herself to speak again, and as he closed the door behind him, he wondered if he might be shutting her out of his life forever.

  Twenty minutes later he was queuing in the steamy atmosphere of the Baltic Takeaway. Sweating freely in front of him stood another regular, a fat man with sorrowful eyes who invariably ordered Aromatic Crispy Duck, Pancake, Rice, Chips And All The Trimmings for one. An ancient transistor radio, imperfectly tuned to local radio, hissed from a shelf it shared with cans of fizzy drink and chilli sauce and a dozen dusty bottles of dandelion and burdock. Above the crackle of the frying fish, Harry could recognise the Walker Brothers singing ‘Make It Easy On Yourself’. He had always liked Hal David’s lyric to the old ballad but tonight he could not be so stoical about the loss of love. The first shock of his rejection was giving way to a mixture of hurt and bafflement. What had gone wrong?

  As the fat man waddled away to his lonely feast, Rene, the woman behind the counter, put down her metal scoop. The harsh fluorescent lights did not flatter her middle-aged skin and the thick cake of mascara and vivid red lips seemed weirdly inappropriate for a chip shop assistant, but there was genuine concern in her eyes as her hoarse smoker’s voice uttered the usual greeting. ‘All right, Harry?’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  She hitched the straps of her gravy-stained overall. ‘You could have fooled me. Anyway, I hear congratulations are in order.’

  He stared at her. Had the heat in this place turned her mind? ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘No need to bite my head off. Surely you haven’t forgotten what you did for Camel’s boy this morning?’

  Of course. Rene’s younger sister, an occasional prostitute who was herself a client of Crusoe and Devlin, was the mother of Shaun Quade, the luckiest car thief in Liverpool. ‘No thanks to me that he got off,’ he said shortly. ‘The prosecution made a mess of it. I don’t expect him to be so fortunate next time.’

  Rene shook her improbable auburn curls. ‘You’re right, I suppose. The lad will never change. Ah well, what are you having tonight?’

  ‘The usual,’ he said, ‘the bloody usual.’

  Chapter Five

  The night was sultry, but that was not the only reason why he found it impossible to sleep. The windows of his room were open and the sound of distant revellers came drifting in from down the river. As he lay sprawled across his bed, he told himself to think of anything but how it might have been to be with Kim at that moment. The filling meal had not relieved his sense of emptiness. It would be easy for frustration to turn to anger. Put it out of your mind, he told himself, that way nothing but disaster lies.

  Women had always been the one mystery he’d found it impossible to solve. He’d lost his virginity at the age of seventeen and he was gloomily aware that he was a late developer; all of his friends at school claimed by then to be seasoned lovers and some at least were telling the truth. He’d spent months pursuing a redhead in the fifth form with scant success and the one girl he’d dated regularly came from a staunch Catholic family and had proved resolute in defence of her chastity. When at long last she began to waver, he’d committed the gaffe that consigned their relationship to oblivion, by turning up at her house one night when he knew her parents were away and embracing her identical twin. Before he’d realised his mistake, he’d explained to the girl in an explicit whisper exactly what he proposed they should do together and she had run off in floods of tears to tell her sister all about his unfaithfulness. In the end he’d been rescued by a divorcee in her thirties who worked on the production line in a bakery where he’d taken a holiday job. She lived in a caravan near Newsham Park, where she’d invited him one afternoon for five long hours of initiation and ecstasy. Her name was Viv and she’d made it clear from the outset that he would not be asked around again: she presumably saw herself as a social service, for within a week he was supplanted in her affections by a skinny asthmatic from a posh school who was rumoured never to have kissed a girl in his life. After that had come student days at the Polytechnic and Law College, prolonged by two years of penury whilst he served his articles. He’d met no-one who proved special and at this distance of time, he had only a hazy recollection of bedroom fumblings and a couple of heart-stopping pregnancy scares. Eventually he had met Liz and he’d believed for a time that dreams came true before his marriage finally ended in the nightmare of murder. Oh Liz, why couldn’t you have stayed with me? He’d asked himself the question a thousand times, without ever finding an answer.

  The memory of his wife’s faithlessness reminded him of Becky Whyatt. The puzzle of her boyfriend’s identity still teased him; for some reason he connected the smooth voice with his office work. Surely the mystery man could not be a court clerk or an apparatchik from the Legal Aid Board? He realised he must satisfy his curiosity. It was time for a little more eavesdropping.

  Click.

  ‘Eight nine, eight nine.’

  ‘Becky, it’s Michelle.’

  ‘Oh, hi.’

  ‘You sound disappointed. Were you expecting another call?’

  ‘Oh no, no. As a matter of fact, I was meaning to give you a ring. I wanted to say thanks for giving m
e that novel.’

  ‘Enjoy it?’

  ‘You know I love a good romance. Makes you wonder why I ever got involved with Steve, doesn’t it?’ A giggle. ‘Though God knows why the clean-cut hero is so often a doctor. If the writers worked for a week in a medical centre, they would change their ideas.’

  ‘You can’t complain about that gorgeous man, Theo Jelf. Unless it’s because he’s never given you the glad eye.’

  ‘I had enough of that in my last job, thank you. And you’re right, there are plenty bosses worse than Theo. Parvez Mir is very good-natured, too. Even so, I prefer my medical heroes in fiction, not in real life.’

  ‘I’m glad you liked the book. Just a small thank-you for the other night. The meal was marvellous.’

  ‘I wish I could say the same about the company. Steve was his usual self, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh well, Steve is Steve. I must be honest, I think you do very well to put up with him.’

  ‘What else can a wife do?’

  ‘I suppose there are always – possible diversions.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Come on, Becky. You were in a world of your own the other night whilst Steve was rattling on and from the smile on your face I felt sure you weren’t thinking about the symbolism of the labyrinth.’

  ‘If you must know …’

  ‘Yes?’

  Becky’s hesitation implied a battle with her conscience. ‘Look, this mustn’t go any further.’

  ‘Pet, how long have we been friends? I can keep a confidence. You can trust me not to tell a soul.’

  ‘I have – met someone. It’s strictly platonic, of course, but I like to talk to him. We have things in common, laugh at the same jokes …’

  ‘Is he married?’ Michelle was agog. ‘Are there any children?’

  ‘No kids. His wife’s much older than he is, she’s paralysed from the waist down. She had a serious riding accident the week after they became engaged, but he stood by her. Of course, they don’t have a – a complete relationship.’