‘Are you sure he’s not shooting you a line?’
‘Michelle, he’s an honest man. Gentle and caring.’
‘He’ll never leave her, you know. They never do. He’ll use her handicap as an excuse.’
‘Hey, I’m beginning to regret I ever mentioned this. There’s no question of us – you know …’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Of course I am. He’s simply a decent chap who has had rotten luck. Naturally he talks about his wife a great deal. I don’t blame him for that, I think of myself simply as a shoulder to cry on. We value the time we have together. Neither of us needs to be told that nothing can come of it.’
‘Presumably you haven’t told Steve?’
‘What do you take me for? Can you imagine how he would react? He would be bound to leap to the wrong conclusion. As you did a minute ago. Not that I mind. People always think the worst. It’s human nature. And I must admit that if circumstances were different … if we didn’t both have our family ties, well, I won’t pretend that it might not be a different story. As it is, all I can do is offer this man a little of my time and company.’
‘And he hasn’t made a move …?’
‘I told you, that’s not his style. Dominic is a rare character, I promise you. Entirely honourable.’
Dominic. Why did that name ring a bell? Harry stopped concentrating on the tape and screwed his eyes tight shut in an effort to remember. He had come across a Dominic in the past few weeks, a man a little less saintly than the paragon of Becky Whyatt’s tall story. He shook his head and kept listening as he waited for enlightenment.
‘So what is this favour you wanted from me?’ Michelle asked.
‘It’s only that we find it so difficult making time to see each other. Half an hour alone together is a luxury. He has his work and his wife, you see, they take up almost all his waking hours. Any moments he can snatch during the day are precious. And so I was wondering …’
‘Yes?’
‘Suppose I told Steve that you and I were going out for an evening? To see a film, perhaps, or have an evening at the Philharmonic. Would you back me up?’
A pause as Michelle savoured the pleasurable prospect of conspiracy. ‘I can’t see why not. If he isn’t willing to be fair to you, to take what you say on trust, then I suppose he ought to take the consequences. When were you thinking of?’
‘I haven’t seen Dominic for a while now. Would tomorrow be too soon?’
‘Wow, you’re in a hurry, aren’t you?’
‘It’s just that …’
‘Okay, okay. As it happens, tomorrow evening fits in very well. I’ve been asked to go to a presentation given by an image consultant. A friend of one of our neighbours is having this expert round at her house. You know the sort of thing, a drop of wine is served and they tell you what colour suits you best and offer personal assessments for a fee. I wasn’t particularly keen – I’m sure the expert will tell me my colour is grey and shatter my confidence forever. But I can easily say yes and tell Jeremy that you’re coming too. And confirm it to Steve if he should ask. Though I can’t imagine he’d ever give me the satisfaction of trying to keep tabs on you through me.’
‘I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you. And Dominic will be glad as well. He has so much worry about Emma that any opportunity to relax and have a chat with a friend …’
Of course! Harry smacked his fist into his palm. He had talked to Dominic within the last fortnight. And hadn’t he explained that he was in partnership with his wife? They were headhunters, recruitment agents, people who specialised in matching professional staff with employers. Dominic had rung him one day when Jim was out and claimed that his firm could solve Crusoe and Devlin’s staffing problems at a stroke. Having failed to think of an excuse to put down the phone, Harry had given the man ten minutes of his time at the end of a long day in court, but had scarcely listened to the slick sales talk: his mind had been on Kim Lawrence. As soon as Dominic had started talking about psychometric testing and the need to take a holistic approach to human resource issues, Harry had begun to yawn. Eventually Dominic abandoned the unequal struggle, although not without insisting that he would send round his firm’s literature for future reference. Harry had stuffed the hand-outs into the briefcase he reserved for the junk mail he never expected to glance at again. Jim often said he suspected that a set of Dead Sea Scrolls lay crumpled at the bottom of the battered black bag.
He hurried to the living room and rooted through the briefcase until he found a folder containing the details he sought. Yes, that was it: Dominic and Emma Revill, partners in Revill Recruitment. Their beaming head-and-shoulders photographs hardly suggested the tragic couple Becky had described to Michelle. Feeling pleased with himself, he returned to the bedroom and wound the tape forward to double-check.
Click.
‘Eight nine, eight nine.’
‘Are you alone?’
‘Darling, I wish I wasn’t. I’d give anything to have you here right now.’
‘Any luck with tomorrow?’
‘It’s good news. We can have a whole evening to ourselves. I needn’t be home before midnight. Michelle will cover for me. But what about Emma?’
‘No problem. I’ll tell her I’m seeing a client. I’ve already laid the groundwork.’
‘I only wish it was tonight.’
‘Not possible, I’m afraid. The two of us are addressing the partners of a solicitors’ practice this evening. A thorough bore, but they do have pots of money. Mind you, it does surprise me how some of the lawyers we contact make a living out of the law. One or two I’ve called recently have been half-asleep.’
Harry switched off the tape with a grin. All of a sudden he felt keen to accept Dominic Revill’s suggestion of a meeting. The need to replace Sylvia would provide the perfect excuse. And this time he would pay the consultant the compliment of giving him his full attention throughout his spiel. In fact, he could hardly wait.
At the second time of asking, sleep came more easily and he stayed in bed so late the next morning that he almost missed his first court hearing. Back in the office, he interviewed a voluble lady who claimed to be suffering from RSI. By the time Harry managed to show her the door, he had satisfied himself that her only likely affliction would be repetitive strain injury of the tongue. As she left the room, Suzanne called to say that Kim had rung and held the line for a while before giving up. For a moment he toyed with the idea of making her sweat for his return call, but he dismissed the thought within seconds. No sense in being childish: he was desperate to talk to her again and only glad that after the debacle of the previous night she had bothered to phone at all.
‘It’s me,’ he said simply after getting through.
There was a short pause. He sensed she was summoning up the courage to talk. When she did, her voice was as small as a child’s. ‘Harry, I had to talk to you. I’m so sorry about last night.’
‘It’s all right.’
‘No, it isn’t. You must be wondering what on earth is going on.’
‘Are you ready to tell me?’ he asked gently.
‘It – it’s difficult for me. I don’t know how to explain. I don’t think I can – at least, not yet. But I am sorry.’
‘Kim,’ he said desperately, ‘forget all this talk about being sorry. Can’t we get together tonight? We could have a drink, a chat, we …’
‘I need a little time, Harry. I feel so mixed up.’
‘This isn’t like you, Kim.’
‘Oh, but it is. You see, you really don’t know me. Can I call you again, soon? Perhaps then …’
He had to settle for that. Putting down the receiver, he felt swamped by frustration. People he cared about – Jim Crusoe, Kim Lawrence – were keeping things from him, refusing to share whatever troubles beset them. Instinct told him that they wanted his help. But he did not know how to give it.
Steven Whyatt rang a few minutes later to check a detail on the financia
l information Harry had asked for. His voice was rasping and he sounded ten years older than the man who had visited the office the previous day. ‘I’ll work on it over the weekend. Frankly, I’m not up to much right now.’
‘You sound terrible.’ Harry hesitated. ‘Is anything wrong?’
Whyatt coughed. ‘As – as a matter of fact, I feel half dead. I’m ringing from home. I had a bout of food poisoning last night. It was so bad Becky had to take me to Casualty. Something wrong with the seafood I ate yesterday evening, I suppose. They rehydrated me and let me go, but I’m under orders to stay in bed until I get my strength back. I can’t understand it. Becky’s cooking doesn’t normally disagree with me. I sometimes think it’s the one thing that still keeps us together.’
The hypochondriac in Harry was tempted to broaden the conversation into a general chat about stomach ailments, but he managed to resist the urge. He toyed with the idea of mentioning that he knew who Becky’s lover was, but on second thoughts decided to keep quiet. Better to take things step by step: he wanted to talk to Revill again and try to find out a little about him before deciding whether to let Whyatt know the truth. It wouldn’t do any harm to learn more about his own client, either: Harry did not relish the prospect of Whyatt taking matters into his own hands and marching into the offices of Revill Recruitment to confront the man who was cuckolding him.
‘So you’ll let me have the figures early next week?’
‘Come over to the garden centre to pick them up, if you like. Have a look at my showpiece maze. It may help you to understand why the business means so much to me.’
After putting the phone down, Harry dialled Dominic’s number. The woman who answered the phone said that Mr Revill was out visiting clients. ‘May I help you in his absence?’
Harry introduced himself. ‘Mr Revill phoned me a while ago and now we may be able to make use of his expertise.’
‘Crusoe and Devlin? Now let me see.’ The woman tapped into a computer and then read out the firm’s address, phone and fax numbers and details of their present staffing. Harry suspected that she had more information about his firm at her fingertips than he did. ‘And are you looking to fill a vacancy or to increase your headcount?’
‘It’s only a locum that we need,’ said Harry. ‘Our conveyancing solicitor is expecting a baby.’
‘We often find,’ the woman said briskly, ‘that once our clients begin to review their staffing requirements, all kinds of new avenues open up. Besides, in a firm such as yours, the position is bound to be key. We need to get together and discuss the drawing up of a clear brief and perhaps a draft person specification.’
‘I didn’t want to put you to any trouble,’ said Harry hastily. ‘A general chat with Mr Revill will do.’
‘My husband and I like to do things thoroughly, Mr Devlin. That is how Revill Recruitment made its name and earned its kitemark for quality. Investing in people is …’
‘You’re Mrs Revill?’
‘Do call me Emma. Yes, Dominic and I work closely as a team and often make joint presentations to our clients.’
He decided it might be interesting to see the husband and wife together. Emma might not be the invalid of Becky’s flight of fancy, but he wanted to try to guess whether she had any idea at all of Dominic’s betrayal. Perhaps he might ask if anyone on their books specialised in matrimonial disputes. ‘Fine, when can we meet?’
Five minutes later he had the pleasure of startling Jim with the news that they were booked to meet a pair of recruitment consultants. ‘You’ve changed your tune, haven’t you?’ his partner muttered. ‘Usually when we discuss making use of an agent, you react like Dracula confronted with garlic.’
‘I’ve been mulling over your views,’ Harry said shamelessly. ‘I reckon you’ve got a point. Perhaps I have been too preoccupied with my own side of the practice. After all, we are partners. I can’t always expect you to cope with the responsibilities of running the firm on your own. And you need support now that Sylvia is going to be off. So I decided to be proactive.’
Jim gave him a suspicious look. Harry had a long history of consigning to his wastepaper bin without a second glance literature that urged its readers to respond to change and challenge. But his expression was all innocence and he even asked if he could borrow his partner’s book about public relations as a means of preparing for the evening ahead.
Even though Empire Hall, where the seminar was being held, was next door to his home, he ran true to form by being one of the last to arrive. Halfway into chapter three of the book, he had begun to doze. The tips on corporate entertainment struck him as absurd. Never mind a marquee at Ascot or strawberries and cream when Wimbledon came round: the average Liverpudlian burglar would be content with a round of beers to celebrate his latest acquittal. Geoffrey Willatt, President of the Liverpool Legal Group, was already on his feet, but as he gave the menacing frown he reserved for inept subordinates and latecomers, someone even less punctual slid into the chair next to Harry’s. The clank of medallions and whiff of exotic aftershave were unmistakeable.
‘Surprised to see you here, mate,’ Oswald Fowler whispered. ‘Sorted out your mission statement, yet?’
‘It begins, “To boldly sue …” And as for this,’ – Harry indicated the leaflet headed HOW TO PROMOTE YOUR PRACTICE which he had found on his chair – ‘I’m toying with the idea of our setting up a stand in the Williamson Square Job Centre as the best way of keeping in contact with our clients. I’ve decided that Crusoe and Devlin’s unique selling point is that we’re cheap.’
Ossie sniggered and Geoffrey Willatt glared. Harry felt himself blushing: he had been articled to Geoffrey and his old boss always had the capacity to make him feel like an errant schoolboy. He half expected a summons to the headmaster’s study.
‘If I may continue …’ Geoffrey Willatt said sternly, ‘effective marketing is a sine qua non for any successful legal firm in the modern age. We need to raise our public profile, make sure our image in the client’s eye is as we would wish.’ When the homily came to an end, a lawyer who worked in industry spoke about the growing importance of presentations to corporate institutions as a means of attracting new business. During the coffee break Ossie asked, ‘Ever actually been on a beauty parade?’
Harry shook his head. ‘Identity parades are more my scene. I think the corporate institutions regard us as the Ugly Sisters of the Liverpool legal profession. Besides, the minor criminals of Merseyside don’t invite interested solicitors to put in a competitive quote for the privilege of acting on their behalf. If you happen to be duty solicitor the night they get caught nicking lead flashing, you pick up the job.’
‘I almost envy you. Ever since we merged with Boycott Duff, I seem to spend half my time preparing tenders to business clients looking to change solicitors.’
Within the past six months, Ossie’s firm had been taken over by a voracious commercial practice which, having set up an office in every other major city of England, had finally taken a deep breath and decided to expand into Liverpool. Boycott Duff was a legal production line run by a small committee of senior partners who were the grandsons of Pennine mill-owners but made their ancestors look like limp-wristed do-gooders. Everyone in the firm was expected to devote themselves body and soul to the job. There wasn’t an equity partner who didn’t work seven days a week and who hadn’t been through at least one divorce. Naturally, Boycott Duff undertook no criminal work. After all, the legend above the entrance to the Old Bailey exhorted ‘Defend ye the children of the poor’ and such sloppy thinking found no place in their business plan.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Oh, the money’s wonderful. Insolvency work is especially lucrative. Only trouble is, I don’t have any time to spend it. I have to check the schedule on my personal organiser to find time to go for a pee these days. Those bastards expect me to have at least one all-nighter a month.’
The all-nighter was a phenomenon which Boycott Duff had made its own. The
partners’ greatest achievement had been to persuade their business clients to have a team of solicitors working through the night to complete every big deal and to pay through the nose for the privilege. Harry subscribed to the rival view that a sound legal firm was one in which there was but a single all-nighter each year: on the occasion of the office Christmas party.
‘Why did you join up with them?’
‘I could spout the press release crap we put out about the advantages of critical mass and our delight at the opportunity of merging with a firm of legal heavyweights. But the simple truth is that we were drifting. Losing Ed Rosencrantz was a hell of a shock. He was such a larger than life character. When he died …’
‘Wasn’t there some mystery about his death?’
Ossie gave the wary smile he usually reserved for charity fundraisers. ‘Itching to exercise your skills as a sleuth again? There’s nothing mysterious about a coronary.’
‘But I’ve heard talk …’
‘Hearsay isn’t evidence, Harry,’ Ossie snapped, ‘any lawyer knows that.’
Harry had for a long time been curious about the vague gossip in the city that suggested there was more to Ed Rosencrantz’s death than had met the eye, but he sensed he would prise nothing more about it from Ossie. In any event, he had a more urgent puzzle on his mind.
‘As a matter of fact,’ he said casually, ‘someone was talking to me the other day about one of your former employees. A woman who left after Ed died.’
‘Oh yes?’ Ossie’s eyes narrowed, as if he scented a potential claim for unfair dismissal.
‘She used to be your receptionist. Becky Whyatt is her name.’
He could sense Ossie breathing a sigh of relief as the prospect of embarrassing litigation receded as fast as it had arisen. ‘Becky? As far as I can remember she said she simply felt in need of a change.’
‘Did you know her well?’
‘Not particularly. She was one of Ed’s recruits. Small girl with great tits. We used to lay odds on whether one day she would topple over. Whether the two of them ever had anything going, I don’t know, but it wouldn’t surprise me. No question of any sexual harassment, she used to flirt with him shamelessly.’
Eve of Destruction: A Harry Devlin Mystery Page 6