Waterloo Sunset

by Martin Edwards

  ‘We can’t wrap ourselves up in cotton wool. Jim wasn’t poking his nose into anybody else’s business, was he?’

  ‘But…’

  ‘No buts,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘I must get along. Things to do.’

  ‘There’s no stopping you, is there?’ she said in weary resignation.

  He touched her warm hand. ‘After what happened to Jim and Kay? Nothing at all.’

  His next destination was Pretty Street, in Waterloo. Aled Borth’s cottage propped up the end of an ancient terraced row in a featureless one-way thoroughfare five minutes from the waterfront. The street name was presumably the brainchild of Victorian city fathers with a keen sense of humour, but Aled’s neighbours had done their best to live up to it. Their small front gardens were neat confections of coloured pebbles and shrubs hardy enough to withstand the icy blast from the waterfront. In contrast, Aled’s patch of ground resembled a ‘before’ shot in a garden makeover programme. It was covered with old, broken concrete; nettles, bindweed and couch grass had colonised the cracks. Harry made his way from the broken wooden gate to Aled’s front door. The curtains upstairs and down were drawn.

  There was no bell, only a rusting iron knocker. Harry smacked the door with it half a dozen times, but no reply. He couldn’t hear a sound from inside. Not a curtain twitched. If Borth was hiding in there, he was keeping very still.

  A stout woman in her seventies emerged from the house next door, wheeling a tartan shopping trolley. She stared at Harry as if he was an extra-terrestrial with more than his fair share of tentacles.

  ‘You’re not looking for Mr Borth, are you?’

  ‘He doesn’t seem to be at home.’

  The woman gave a loud sniff. ‘Heaven only knows what that one gets up to. Coming and going at all hours of the day and night, there’s no rhyme or reason to it. I never knew decent folk keep such peculiar hours, that’s for sure. Come to that, I’ve lived next door to him for more years than I care to remember, but I’ve never known him have a caller.’

  She paused for a moment, as if to ratchet up her disapproval. ‘I mean to say, not a male caller.’

  Harry hazarded a jocular grin. ‘A bit of a ladies’ man, is he?’

  This time her sniff sounded more like a bomb blast. ‘I wouldn’t call them ladies.’

  Harry tried to look shocked, but he felt a surge of excitement. If Borth had a habit of paying for female company, over time his demands might have become increasingly exotic. He might have wanted to take what wasn’t for sale. Even in the sober environment of the coroner’s court, he’d not been able to control his temper. Alone with an unwilling or scornful escort girl, the impulse to indulge his fantasies by force might have become too strong to resist.

  The woman glared at Harry’s grey pinstripe. After crawling round Juliet May’s balcony, he’d dropped off his court suit at the cleaners. This one was Asda rather than Armani, but at least it was a suit and that alone created grounds for suspicion in Pretty Street.

  ‘You’re not a debt collector, by any chance? I mean, he’s forever complaining that he’s short of money and he still owes me for a pint of milk from a month ago.’

  ‘No, I’m his solicitor.’ It was more or less true, though Harry could not conceive that Borth would ever consult him again.

  ‘His solicitor?’ The way the woman scowled, Harry might have confessed to being a paedophile. ‘No wonder he’s on his uppers if he’s had to pay legal fees. My son Brian has just been involved in a court case. Lawyers? Money-grabbing blood-suckers, that’s what he calls them.’

  Harry tried to compose his features into an expression neither vampiric nor avaricious. ‘Any idea where Aled Borth might be?’

  ‘At that blinking picture-house, like as not. He spends half his life there. I don’t see the point, myself. Why go to the cinema when you can watch television in the comfort of your own front room?’

  In the June daylight, the turrets and the towers of the Alhambra seemed even more at odds with their surroundings than on a cold winter’s night. Two men chatted in a foreign language as they unloaded boxes from a white van outside the kebab house, while a gang of truanting kids kicked a football at a goal chalked on a brick wall. Harry strolled up the steps to the cinema entrance. The main door was closed, but when he pushed, it yielded to his touch.

  Every other time he’d stood in the foyer, fellow movie-goers had milled around the kiosk and box office, and the air was thick with the aroma of popcorn and fruit gums. Now the Alhambra’s interior was graveyard-quiet, with chandeliers unlit and the windows shuttered. Everything was dark, from the densely patterned carpet to the oak panelling on the walls. His skin felt clammy and uncomfortable, and his shoulders stiffened with tension.

  The silence was shattered as a venerable organ roared into life. In the auditorium, someone was playing the Alhambra’s lovingly restored Mighty Wurlitzer. Harry recognised the frenzied rhythms of The Phantom of the Opera.

  It had to be Aled Borth.

  Harry took a pace forward, then paused. He was about to confront the man on his home ground, with nobody to call on for help. What if Aled were a serial killer? But the organist didn’t frighten him. Ka-Yu Cheung was dead and her murderer must be found and that was all he cared about. When he strode past the kiosk and kicked open the door to the auditorium, the music shuddered to a halt.

  The lights were up in the movie theatre. Stretched between two Doric columns, an amber curtain concealed the vast screen. There wasn’t a soul in the fifteen hundred red plush tip-up seats of the stalls and circle. Crouched like a crab over the keys of the Mighty Wurlitzer was Aled Borth.

  ‘Hello, Aled.’

  An unforgiving glare illuminated Aled’s bald patch. He was wearing tweed trousers with threadbare knees and dirty carpet slippers. As Harry walked up to him, the whiff of old beer was as strong as in the saloon of the Burning Deck. When Aled turned, the goldfish eyes behind the spectacles were dull with drink.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’d like to ask you one or two questions.’

  ‘Nothing to say.’

  ‘You knew Lee Welch.’

  ‘Lee Welch?’

  Aled’s voice trembled with fear. The feeble attempt to feign ignorance would not convince a child.

  ‘The girl who was murdered. Whose body was found on the beach, a stone’s throw from here.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I read about it.’

  ‘And you recognised her name, didn’t you?’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘You knew her.’

  ‘I knew her mother.’

  ‘Her mother?’

  ‘Yeah, she worked in the Co-op with my mum, donkey’s years ago.’

  It was like that heart-sinking moment when a witness you’re cross-examining comes up with an answer that takes your breath away. Yet Aled hadn’t hesitated; he gave no sign of making up something that sounded plausible. And hadn’t Gina spoken of Lee’s mother having a job in a shop?

  ‘You met her again recently, didn’t you? In very different circumstances.’

  Aled looked away. ‘I…dunno what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I think you do. She was an escort girl and you hired her. Want to tell me the full story?’

  ‘You must be bloody joking.’

  ‘Or would you rather explain to the police instead?’

  ‘Who do you think you are? You’re my fucking solicitor!’

  ‘That’s history,’ Harry said softly. ‘What matters is that I knew the latest girl to die. Her name was Ka-Yu Cheung and she never had the joy in life she deserved. Whoever killed her took away any chance she might find something better.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you making some kind of threat?’ Aled struggled to his feet, his demeanour a pastiche of injured dignity. ‘You’re right, I ought to call the police!’

  ‘Chances are you’ll speak to them any time now.’

  Aled jabbed a forefinger hard into Harry’s midriff.
He scarcely felt it – at last, an upside to putting on a few pounds.

  ‘Why are you persecuting me?’

  ‘You were a client of Lee Welch’s. Easy to prove, these agencies keep records, they like to show that they operate above board. Anything the girls agree with the clients is nothing to do with them, blah, blah.’

  ‘I told you, she grew up here. Her mother…’

  ‘Did she tease you, was that why you lost it?’

  ‘No!’ Aled’s breath was coming in short gasps. ‘I would never hurt her. She’s the sort who made enemies. It could have been…’

  ‘Enemies? She’d been down in London, she hadn’t had much time to make enemies back here.’

  ‘Not true. She was sly and greedy, and…’

  ‘You really didn’t like her, did you?’

  ‘Listen, all I did was pay for her time. Where’s the harm? I just like to talk to the girls, that’s all. Lee was happy the last time I saw her. She told me she was going to be rich.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘There was something she’d overheard at work. She did a bit of cleaning and she knew something that someone wanted to keep dark. Lee said they would pay good money to keep her mouth shut.’

  ‘You’re making it up. You haven’t had a proper relationship for God knows how long, so you make do with prostitutes. But what…’

  ‘You bastard!’

  Aled lunged at him, fists swinging. He caught Harry a glancing blow on the temple and within a moment, both of them were on the floor, grappling with more stubbornness than science. What Aled lacked in strength, he made up for in bloody-minded rage. He hauled himself up and started stabbing at Harry’s eyes with short, grubby fingers. Harry struggled to push the man’s hand away from his face, not meaning to inflict pain, just to avoid it. He didn’t want to hurt Aled, whatever he might have done to Kay and the others. He loathed violence, his passionate hatred of it had brought him here, to this renovated picture palace and a bizarre wrestling match.

  Suddenly he heard the clatter of a big man’s footsteps, and then Sid Rankin’s voice, hoarse with astonishment.

  ‘My God, now I’ve seen everything. A cinema organist trying to poke a solicitor’s eyes out!’

  Aled moaned, and rolled off Harry’s stomach. When Harry shifted position, his ribs hurt. In the melee, he’d bitten his own tongue. It seemed to take an age before he could stand upright. Aled was huddled up a couple of feet away, his back wedged against the Mighty Wurlitzer. His spectacles lay on the floor, the glass crushed beyond repair. Tears trickled down his cheeks, moistening the thread veins.

  ‘All I did was talk to the girls,’ he muttered.

  Harry gulped in air. Aled was a dirty old man in more ways than one. He’d admitted to hiring escorts, but it was a long way short of proof that he was a murderer.

  ‘Why should I believe you?’

  ‘Because it’s true. A…a cultural companion, that’s what I wanted. Someone I could pay to be my friend for an hour or two.’

  Sid looked as dazed as if he was the one who’d come off worst in a bare-knuckle fight. Harry would have laughed if his ribs could take the strain.

  ‘Come on, you two. What’s going on? I mean, am I dreaming this?’

  Harry wiped dusty hands on his trousers. At this rate, he’d need to take out a second mortgage to afford his dry cleaning bill.

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ he said.

  ‘Harry,’ Sid said, ‘you really don’t want to know what I think.’

  ‘Another fine mess you got yourself into,’ Carmel said.

  They were together again at the General, in reception at A&E. Harry’s ribs kept aching and he’d decided to have them checked out. The nurse gave him a once-over and announced that although she couldn’t find anything worse than a bit of bruising, he ought to have a precautionary X-ray, just in case.

  ‘It wasn’t in vain,’ Harry insisted. ‘Aled Borth admitted he knew Lee Welch.’

  ‘Takes us no further forward.’

  ‘Did you find out any more?’

  Carmel nodded. ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’

  ‘I reckon I’m due some good news.’

  ‘All right, you were spot on. Aled Borth has a history. Six months ago he was cautioned for kerb-crawling in Toxteth.’

  ‘It’s a progression.’ Harry dug his nails into his palm. ‘He picked girls up on the streets until police surveillance made it uncomfortable. After that, he turned to hiring girls from escort agencies.’

  Carmel sighed. ‘Ready for the bad news?’

  ‘Break it to me gently.’

  ‘Ever since Denise Onuoha was murdered, the team has been checking up on past offenders with a history of association with prostitutes. Painstaking work. They have traced the movements of hundreds of men. Including Aled Borth.’

  ‘That’s not bad news.’

  ‘Depends on your point of view. When Denise was killed, Aled was playing his organ. No rude jokes, please. There was a soirée at the Alhambra and he performed selections from the days of silent movies. He couldn’t have made it across the river until long after midnight, by which time Denise was probably dead.’

  ‘It’s not a watertight alibi. What about the night Kay died?’

  ‘Aled arrived at the cinema at six-fifteen, for a screening at seven. No way could he have killed her at Widnes and hot-footed it back to Waterloo in time. You’ll never guess what film was showing.’

  ‘Break it to me gently.’

  ‘The Trouble with Harry,’ Carmel chortled. ‘They ought to remake it as a documentary.’

  ‘So did he have an alibi for Lee Welch’s murder?’

  ‘Not as far as we know. But if the crimes form a series, he must be in the clear. Are you suggesting Aled was able to ascertain the murderer’s MO and copy it in killing Lee? How could he do that?’

  His last sight of Aled Borth stayed in his mind. Squeezed into a foetal ball against the cinema organ, Aled had sobbed himself into incoherence. Suppose he was telling the truth, and the reason he tried to wheedle his way into the pagan circle, and then hired escort girls when that didn’t work out, was that he craved female company, any female company, once his mother left for the Indian Summer Care Home, to spend her twilight days in a booze-soaked reverie?

  ‘Are you OK?’ Carmel asked.

  ‘Sore ribs, that’s all.’ The pangs of conscience hurt more. He didn’t like Aled, but he wished he hadn’t made a sad life even harder to bear. ‘Surely the murders must all have been committed by the same person?’

  ‘That’s the assumption the SIO has made. But…’

  ‘Forget Aled. What if someone else knew the killer’s signature?’

  ‘You read my mind, Harry darling.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘Which in itself I find rather perturbing.’

  ‘A copycat with access to the inquiry might have killed Lee,’ he said, chasing after the train of thought, ‘or Kay. Or even both of them.’

  ‘That assumes confidential information leaked from the inquiry team.’

  ‘Par for the course.’

  ‘Cynic. The SIO made every effort to contain the key facts on a need-to-know basis.’

  He shrugged. ‘But you knew. And I knew.’

  ‘Don’t rub it in. I shouldn’t have opened my big mouth.’

  ‘I’m glad you trusted me. But not everyone who needed to know will have been discreet.’

  The nurse appeared. ‘Ready, Mr Devlin?’

  A thought grabbed him and he said to Carmel, ‘I’m not talking about the investigating officers. Even in a highly sensitive murder case, there are people on the fringes who find out important stuff. Such as the fact that the victims’ tongues were cut out.’

  The nurse opened her eyes very wide. ‘I’m sorry?’

  Neither of them paid her any attention. ‘Who do you have in mind?’ Carmel asked.

  ‘The pathologist. The paramedics who moved the body. Staff from the undertakers.’ He paused. ‘A mobile embalmer, f
or instance.’

  Carmel told him she’d never heard of Barney Eagleson, but she agreed it was worth asking a few questions; even if he wasn’t the killer, if he’d been indiscreet, more people might know about the MO than the police believed. The X-ray revealed that Harry’s ribs were not broken, and within half an hour he was in his car, crawling back to the waterfront. Traffic inched through endless roadworks, past huge and colourful billboards bragging about the millions spent on what the authorities, with a stab at irony, had dubbed the City Centre Movement Strategy. He shut out the grumbling engines and impatient horns by turning up the volume for an old favourite track. Dionne Warwick’s definitive ‘Walk on By’. The chorus might have been the city engineer’s advice to frustrated motorists.

  When at last he reached John Newton House, Lou was engaged in his usual colloquy at the welcome desk with WH Auden. Harry gathered that they were unhappy with the recent performances of the England football team, and had much smarter ideas about players, formation and tactics than the wildly overpaid team coach.

  ‘Is Victor around?’

  Lou shook his head. ‘Gone out on the piss with his mate.’

  ‘Barney Eagleson?’

  ‘The bloke who looks like he’s got TB, that’s right.’

  ‘Any idea where they are?’

  ‘Sorry, mate.’

  ‘Or when Victor might be back?’

  ‘As long as he’s back to relieve me at six, that’s all that matters, isn’t it?’

  The entrance doors swung open and Wayne Saxelby strolled in. ‘Harry, just the man!’

  Harry’s heart sank. ‘Hi, Wayne.’

  ‘Were your ears burning? I’ve been in touch with the Chief Executive of LIC.’

  ‘LIC?’

  ‘Liverpool Innovators’ Centre. They make grants available for local businesses at the cutting edge.’

  ‘I’m not sure we qualify.’

  ‘Use your imagination! I pitched this idea of the firm developing an interactive web presence. You can combine a blog with online client satisfaction surveys and a chat room for members of your personal network.’