Waterloo Sunset: A Lake District Mystery #4 (Lake District Mysteries) Page 6

  ***

  The coroner’s court in Liverpool was large and airy. Harry had seen photographs of the old trading hall from which it had been carved. Ceri Hussain’s chair occupied the place where, years ago, the cotton merchants’ fireplace had stood. She looked thoughtful as her flunkeys organised the technology to permit the experts’ evidence to be presented in such a way that laymen could understand. Even Harry, who was to IT what King Herod was to child care, recognised that the gleaming equipment was state-of-the-art. The video visualiser had a camera on top to enable the learned witness to demonstrate his point on screen. Pictures could be shown on the high white walls, with powerpoint displays to help make sense of all the medical jargon. And there would be jargon, a lot of it.

  The courtroom was crowded. Borth sat beside Harry, his cheeks dried but his breathing laboured. Most of the seats were taken by Needham’s staff, advisers and miscellaneous flunkeys. The man himself had composed his features into an expression of benevolent concern. Care homes didn’t flourish if questions were asked about the deaths of their residents. He was on his best behaviour, whatever his anger about the police investigation. And Harry guessed that this was a man capable of serious anger. The difference between him and poor Aled Borth was that Needham knew how to control it.

  In charge of it all, quiet and unobtrusive, was Ceri Hussain. She was wearing a dark suit and blouse, well-cut but scarcely striking. She was so different from Juliet May; he had no sense that she yearned to be admired, far less desired. She acknowledged Harry with a nod as soon as she took her seat. He knew she’d be relying on him to make Borth behave and was anxious not to let her down. Easier said than done.

  When she called Aled Borth to supply the short essential facts about his mother, she treated him with such kindness and encouragement that Borth seemed nonplussed. As he was when the questions suddenly stopped.

  ‘Thank you very much, Mr. Borth, that will be all. I know this is difficult for you, but I am most grateful for your help. You may go back to your seat now.’

  Borth was off the stand before he knew it. Harry allowed himself the luxury of a sigh of relief. So far, so good.

  The toxicologist, a Gene Hackman look-alike with a Derbyshire burr, talked a lot about the half-life of drugs and exponential decay. Half-life, Harry reflected, as a variety of Delphic equations scrolled down the screen, was quite a phrase. So many people only lived a half-life. Maybe he was one of them, maybe he ought to do something about it before the decay went too far.

  Ceri Hussain’s gaze flicked from witness to screen. Evidently she understood everything the man said. Not even an Oscar-winner could feign such interest, or be confident that she was nodding in all the right places. She was scarily bright; he remembered that she’d qualified as a doctor before turning to the law. She’d made partner in a national firm before giving it up to become Coroner of the City of Liverpool. To live with such a woman must be daunting. How could you hope to compare? Was this, he wondered, the reason behind her husband’s death—had he yielded to a sense of inadequacy as overwhelming as a tidal wave?

  Ricky Hussain had committed suicide earlier in the year. One evening he’d swallowed some whisky and pills and pulled a plastic bag over his head. Ceri had returned home to find his body slumped in an armchair. He was a salesman who had set up his own business and the rumour mill suggested his finances were over-stretched. What the full story was, nobody knew. It hadn’t come out at his inquest, that was for sure.

  Ceri had spent years consoling the bereaved and now she had to come to terms with her own loss. He guessed that she felt guilty, it was common enough. But she was dealing with her husband’s death in the way she knew best, by throwing herself into her work.

  ‘Professor Afridi, would you be kind enough to take the stand, please?’

  The guru sashayed over to the box, a Hollywood star strolling on set to meet a chat show host in front of an audience of hand-picked admirers. As he took his seat, he surveyed the court and gave a slight shake of the head, as if to still an imminent outbreak of applause. Harry rolled the word pharmacokinetics around on his tongue as the professor occupied five minutes by describing his degrees, honours, publications and miscellaneous achievements. He was an immodest man with a lot to be immodest about. As he explained the data, Harry had no doubt that Nesta Borth hadn’t quite managed to drink herself to death before her heart gave out, but it had been a close run thing. There was no case for Needham to answer.

  Nevertheless, a lawyer has to earn his corn. As he rose to his feet, Harry felt uncomfortably like a schoolboy invited to bowl a few off-breaks at an Australian Test batsman. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Now, Professor, you’re clearly one of the world’s leading authorities…,’—on second thoughts, he still wasn’t quite sure how to pronounce pharmacokinetics—‘in your field…’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Is it not possible, though, that there might be room for doubt here? Another way to interpret the evidence?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘That Nesta Borth died of an injection of morphine improperly administered and in excess of the therapeutic dose and that the liver damage we have heard about has merely confused the facts?’

  The professor sucked in his cheeks as he considered this. Harry was suddenly gripped by excitement. Was this his Clarence Darrow moment? Hadn’t the great attorney said that lost causes were the only ones worth fighting for? What would Ceri Hussain make of it if, with a single casual question, he cracked the case wide open?

  The professor cleared his throat. Harry found himself leaning forward, waiting for the reply.

  ‘No, Mr. Devlin, I fear it is you who may be confused. As you might have gathered from listening to and understanding the evidence I have given over the past twenty minutes, your suggestion represents a fundamental misreading of the data. With respect to those who had care of the late Mrs. Borth, it would amount to a calumny as illogical as it was unfair.’

  Afridi allowed Harry the glimmer of a smile. Harry winced. Darrow, he recalled, had also said this: I have never killed a man, but I have read many obituaries with a lot of pleasure. Right on, Clarence.

  Suddenly, Aled Borth sprang to his feet.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this farce! Call this British justice? My mother wasn’t some old dipsomaniac. A touch of sherry on special occasions was her limit. She was murdered, I tell you! Poisoned by that man!’

  He pointed across the courtroom at Malachy Needham as the London lawyers quivered with outrage like reeds in a gale. The toxicologist cringed in embarrassment. Needham alone seemed unmoved, his face a mask.

  Harry hissed, ‘Please, no more. This isn’t helping.’

  Ceri Hussain half-rose in her chair. ‘Mr. Borth, I realise this is distressing for you and I’m anxious to afford you latitude as the only child of the deceased, but I cannot allow you to indulge in wild accusations. Please resume your seat.’

  And it was her words, rather than Harry’s, that silenced Borth.

  ***

  ‘They had us for breakfast!’ Borth said bitterly back in the waiting room. ‘I wasted my money on you. What chance does an ordinary working man have, up against the likes of Needham and his bank balance? Professor Afridi versus Harry Devlin. It’s a bit of a mismatch, frankly.’

  Harry didn’t point out that he was a solicitor, not a magician. The client is always right. Or, at least, should always be allowed the last word.

  ‘The coroner listened carefully to what you had to say.’

  ‘For the sake of appearances. You professionals, you all stick together, you’re all in the same club.’

  Harry stood up and offered his hand.

  ‘I’ll see you at the Alhambra tonight.’

  ‘I shan’t be there. I’ll be going through the file. Work out grounds for an appeal.’

  Harry smothered a sigh and headed for the door. In the passageway outside, by the reception counter at the coroner’s office, Ceri Hussain was in conversation wi
th a secretary. When she saw Harry approaching, she detached herself.

  ‘How is Mr. Borth?’

  Harry glanced back towards the waiting room. ‘He’ll get over it. But this case has been his life for months. It’ll take time.’

  ‘You did your best for him.’

  ‘Thanks. I only wish he felt the same.’

  She arched her eyebrows. ‘Not expecting gratitude, are you?’

  He grinned. ‘Not really.’

  ‘It’s good to see you again.’

  ‘And you.’

  He was wondering about this conversation. Ceri Hussain didn’t bother with idle gossip. Should he ask her out? That smooth operator Wayne Saxelby would know by instinct what buttons to press. Maybe this was the area in his life where he needed the input of an expert consultant. How to build a relationship to last.

  ‘I enjoyed our chat at the Adelphi. We must do it again sometime.’

  Jesus. An opportunity, to be grabbed with both hands.

  ‘May I give you a ring?’

  ‘Do.’

  He beamed. ‘Great. Well…see you again.’

  As he turned to go, she laughed and said, ‘Don’t you need my number?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Please.’

  She took a business card from her bag and jotted on the back. ‘Here, that’s my mobile.’

  ‘Thanks.’ A thought struck him. ‘You don’t happen to like Polanski, by any chance?’

  ‘As a film director, yes. Chinatown is one of my favourites.’

  ‘Mine too. It’s a long shot, but if you’re free tonight, they are showing a new print of The Tenant at the Waterloo Alhambra.’

  ‘The Alhambra? Isn’t that where Mr. Borth…’

  ‘He won’t be there,’ he said quickly.

  ‘Well, I doubt he’d be very pleased to see you and me together at the cinema today of all days, but if you’re sure…’

  ‘That’s what he told me.’

  ‘I have a few reports to prepare, but apart from that, I’m at a loose end. What time are we talking about?’

  ‘Ten o’clock. It’s a late night screening, a series the management calls Just Because You’re Paranoid…’

  ‘As in…it doesn’t mean they’re not still out to get you?’

  ‘Spot on. I’ll be honest, if you’re looking for a feel-good movie, The Tenant is to be avoided. It’s not exactly The Sound of Music.’

  ‘Can I confess a guilty secret? I always loathed the Von Trapp kiddies and their do-re-mi. Give me a bit of darkness any time. Shall we meet outside at a quarter to?’

  ‘How about half past nine, and we can have a drink at the bar?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  Knowing that Wayne Saxelby would advise against a show of excessive delight, he contented himself with a brisk nod and left her at the counter. On his way out, he bumped into a red-faced man in his fifties whose navy blue suit struggled to contain his bulk. Ken Porterfield, the coroner’s officer, was in his customary affable mood.

  ‘Bad luck, Harry. You were never going to pin anything on Needham. More’s the pity. He’s a snake, that bloke.’

  ‘You took a dislike to him?’

  ‘Not simply over this, though he was an arrogant shit to interview. I’d have sympathised more, if I hadn’t come across him before. Not that he remembered me, thank Heaven, I was too insignificant to register on his radar.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Must have been ten years ago. He was in the porn business then.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yeah. Nasty stuff, under-age girls, supposed snuff movies imported from the Continent. Even more lucrative than the medical profession, no wonder he hung up his stethoscope. As for residential care, it’s a neat way to launder the profits as well as providing a legitimate source of income. I expect he still has his finger in a few dodgy pies. You can usually judge a man by the company he keeps. Present company excepted, Harry.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s possible one or other of them murdered dear old Nesta?’

  ‘Do me a favour. Ten thousand is loose change for people like that. Needham’s hand in glove with Casper May, you know.’

  ‘No, I didn’t know.’

  Ken Porterfield patted his paunch with inexplicable pride. ‘Mind, if he knows what’s good for him, he won’t get the wrong side of Casper. People who make that mistake tend to finish up dead. Ever crossed swords with Casper yourself, Harry?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ A vision swam into Harry’s mind of Juliet May’s bare body, stretched out beneath his. He made a performance of checking his watch to cover his confusion. ‘Well, good to have a word. See you around.’

  He strode out into the courtyard, keen to escape. Standing on the pavement of Old Hall Street, beyond the wreath-laden war memorial, was Aled Borth. He must have scurried out while Harry was talking. In his hand was a newspaper and he was staring at the front page, open-mouthed.

  Harry waited until Borth had moved on and then strolled to the nearest news vendor. There was only one story on the posters, only one of any consequence on the front page.

  WATERLOO MURDER—WOMAN NAMED.

  Chapter Six

  What’s in a name? Harry asked himself. Specifically, what’s in the name of Lee Welch?

  He’d stopped off in a café opposite Exchange Flags to study the newspaper. The office could wait. He was sure Aled Borth had been shocked by something he read. The man seemed even more startled than by his puzzling encounter with Grace in the office. His hands shook so much that Harry half-expected him to let the tabloid sheets slip from his grasp and fall to the ground.

  Yet the story didn’t say much, apart from naming the woman found dead at Waterloo as Lee Welch, aged 21. The report was accompanied by a holiday snap apparently taken on the beach of some Spanish resort. She had shoulder-length bleached blonde hair and a neck tattoo. An unnamed neighbour described her as bubbly and fun-loving. The same epitaph as bestowed upon Denise Onuoha, and, it sometimes seemed to Harry, upon everyone young who met a tragic end.

  The senior investigating officer kept it vague: ‘Police inquiries are continuing and we are following up a variety of leads.’

  In other words, they didn’t have a clue. The SIO dead-batted suggestions of a link between Lee’s death and Denise’s, while appealing to the public for fresh information. Nothing there to set Aled Borth’s pulse racing. Could something else have spooked him? Unlikely that Liverpool FC’s latest activity in the transfer market would provoke such a reaction. There were a few small box advertisements, for sofas, digital hearing aids, and Mediterranean cruises, and that was it.

  It must be the name. The only explanation Harry could conjure up was that Lee Welch herself meant something to Aled Borth.

  Perhaps she was a patron of the Waterloo Alhambra? Harry struggled to believe that he and the dead girl had been friends. Even allowing for mood-darkening effects of bereavement, anyone less bubbly and fun-loving than poor old Aled you wouldn’t meet in a day’s march.

  He checked his watch. Time to get back. It was chilly for June, with the threat of rain, but his mood was jaunty as he strode down Chapel Street. Of course, he knew better than to expect that anything serious might develop between him and Ceri Hussain. She was just interested in his company, without strings; but she’d given him something to look forward to. Since he’d split up with Juliet, he’d had a few flings, but none that meant much either to him or the women. It suited him to be beholden to nobody once he retreated to Empire Dock and locked his door on the world outside. When he’d heard that his half-brother was dead, he hadn’t wept, though there was so much that the two of them had never said to each other. But the loss of the last close member of his family deepened his sense of isolation when he sat in his flat and watched the river swirl by.

  By the time he reached the cut-through at the Parish Church, he’d persuaded himself that things were looking up. He’d rid himself of the Borth case. Tom Gunter wouldn’t cause any more trouble if he wasn’t provo
ked again. Maybe it was time to give his life a makeover. If Liverpool could reinvent itself, why couldn’t he?

  He strolled into the gardens where he’d confronted Tom Gunter. Twenty-four hours later, everything was quiet. This was the oldest corner of Liverpool, but few guessed its bloody history. During the Black Death, it served as a burial ground for plague victims, and in the Civil War the church served as a prison for both Cavaliers and Roundheads. Two hundred years back, the old spire crashed into the nave, killing a group of girls from a charity school. The Luftwaffe’s bombs destroyed the church, but it rose again from the wreckage. Now the graveyard was a quiet oasis of shrubs and trees strong enough to withstand the salty wind. The planting had a Biblical theme: wormwood, laurel and a Judas tree.

  He paused by one of the benches. It wasn’t sitting-out weather and there were few people around. A young black woman in a business suit typed with two fingers on a laptop, an elderly couple poured hot drinks from a Thermos flask. In the eighteenth century, a coffee house had stood in the corner of the churchyard. It was a place of business as well as for relaxation. Shackles were fixed for slaves who were auctioned, and the successful bidders shipped them across the Atlantic in return for cotton, sugar and rum. Before abolition, Liverpool was the centre of the slave trade. The city grew rich from the sale of human lives.

  ***

  ‘Harry!’

  Juliet May stood at the iron gate to the gardens, swinging a bag from hand to hand. She wore a sleek grey single-breasted jacket and low-cut blouse, with spotless high-waisted white pants. After a moment’s hesitation, he walked towards her.

  ‘I’ve not seen you for years, now it’s twice in two days.’

  ‘Now I live in the same building where you work, we’re bound to bump into each other.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘I hoped you would be pleased, that the two of us are so close again.’ That familiar, tantalising smile. ‘At least in terms of geography.’

  ‘I hear Casper owns the building.’

  ‘Of course. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘Not until last night.’