Waterloo Sunset

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Where did she work as a cleaner?’

  ‘Now you’re asking. Half the offices in the city, I guess. Lee wasn’t like me, she hated cleaning. Never took a pride in the work. And she liked variety. I doubt if she lasted in any one place more than a fortnight.’

  Irena had finished her vodka and lime. She wiped her lips and said, ‘We work in same place some days.’

  ‘You and Lee?’ Harry asked. ‘Which places?’

  Irena looked sorrowfully at her empty glass.

  ‘Another?’

  Irena smiled. So did Gina.

  As Harry waited to be served at the bar, the Blob oozed through a projectionist’s room, while hysterical cinemagoers fled for the exits. Almost as bizarre as his encounter with Aled Borth at the Alhambra.

  He felt a tap on his shoulder.

  ‘We must stop meeting like this.’

  Juliet. Once upon a time, the sound of her voice would have made his knees weak with lust for her. These days, desire was stifled by anxiety. She was playing a game, and he didn’t know the rules. But one good cliché deserved another.

  ‘Do you come here often?’

  She threw a glance towards the door to the VIP lounge. Following her eyes, he saw Casper May and Malachy Needham, deep in conversation.

  ‘Malachy has a stake in this place. It’s a goldmine. He’s offered Casper a slice of the action.’

  ‘To go along with the cleaning company and Cultural Companions?’

  A girl with flame-coloured hair and a dress even skimpier than Irena’s joined the two men. She draped a hand over Needham’s shoulder and offered him a drink from her glass of Pimm’s. As he sipped, she kept her eyes locked on Casper.

  ‘Between you and me,’ Juliet said, ‘business isn’t all those two share.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, she’s a Cultural Companion?’

  Juliet snorted. ‘Don’t be fooled by the butter-wouldn’t-melt smile. She’s a tart from Toxteth, hand-picked by Malachy. But she makes eyes at Casper, like all the rest.’

  ‘So what? You and Casper aren’t married any longer. You’re both footloose and fancy-free. And you have Jude the Obscure Actor to keep you entertained.’

  ‘Jude and I have split.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Don’t be. Poor Jude, he has the brain of a rhino and he’s about as sensitive.’ She finished her gin and tonic and banged the glass down on the counter. It wasn’t her first drink of the evening, for sure. ‘Full marks for energy and physique, but that’s not enough. I like a man to have a little imagination.’

  When the girl behind the counter tired of flirting with a beefy colleague and at last took Harry’s order, he found himself asking Juliet if she wanted a drink. It was only good manners.

  ‘Another gin, and go easy on the tonic.’ The barmaid turned to busy herself with the drinks and Juliet frowned at her pert twenty-year-old backside. ‘I lied to you about Jude because I wanted to see if you’d be jealous.’

  Harry shifted from one foot to another. It wasn’t in Juliet’s nature to make herself vulnerable. The gin was talking and he wasn’t sure where this might lead. Nowhere safe, was his guess.

  ‘You don’t need me to be jealous.’

  ‘You reckon?’ She smiled. ‘And if you accuse me of fishing for compliments, you’ll be dead right.’

  ‘You’ve got everything you could want. Looks, money, personality.’

  She leant against him and murmured, ‘What I have is never enough.’

  He handed his money to the barmaid. ‘You don’t need me, Juliet.’

  ‘You let yourself into my penthouse and left the key there. What was all that about?’

  ‘Your mention of the photograph puzzled me. I thought I’d check it out. But you’d made a mistake. Casper came back sooner than expected. So I let myself out on to the balcony.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Harry. It’s a wonder you’re still in one piece.’

  ‘It’s OK, I’m not scared of heights. Only of falling.’

  ‘How did you get down?’

  ‘I talked my way into the penthouse at the back. Lucky that Tamara’s boyfriend was in.’

  ‘Really?’ She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘What I really wanted to know is the story behind the photograph.’

  She put a finger to her lips. ‘Ah, that would be telling.’

  ‘You can tell me.’

  ‘It’s a long story, and not very edifying. Let’s forget it, shall we?’

  ‘Sorry, Juliet, no can do. The woman is Denise Onuoha, isn’t that right?’

  Her gaze hardened. She might have had too much to drink, but she hadn’t lost all control.

  ‘Let it go, Harry. It’s nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Who is the man in the photograph?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. It was months ago.’

  ‘I want to know his name, and what the photograph means.’

  ‘You should know better than to interfere with Casper’s business. You got away with interfering with me. Time to quit while you’re ahead.’

  ‘I’m not into quitting.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘There’s something almost admirable about your stupidity, Harry.’

  ‘Thanks for those kind words.’

  ‘Don’t think I underestimate you. People do it all the time. But you never give up, do you?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I have to go. Thanks for the drink.’

  For a moment he was tempted to seize her arm and demand again the truth about the photograph. But there was nothing to be gained from causing a scene. As he threaded through the crowd, three glasses balanced between his hands, he felt Juliet’s gaze burn into his back. He looked straight ahead towards the two young women, sitting beneath a mural from Forbidden Planet. It depicted the spooky laboratory of the long-dead Krell, store of even more accumulated wisdom than the Liverpool Legal Group members’ library.

  ‘So you worked with Lee Welch?’ he prompted, as Irena tilted her glass.

  ‘Sometimes,’ she said, smacking her lips.

  ‘And Denise Onuoha?’

  ‘I met her once, at our…what to say, HQ? Not a nice girl. Lee knew her better than me.’

  ‘Where did you work with her?’

  ‘Stalagmite Insurance. Quality Accountants Limited.’ She scratched her nose as she thought back. ‘And Culture Cleaners Company. The HQ.’

  ‘In Tithebarn Street?’

  ‘Yes.’ Irena wiggled her index finger and made a face, a parody of wiping a shelf and finding it caked with dust. ‘Not good, huh? The main place of a cleaning firm and it is covered in dirt?’

  Harry nodded towards the VIP lounge. Juliet had joined Casper, Malachy and the young redhead outside the door. The men were still talking, the women exchanged hostile glances but didn’t speak.

  ‘See the men over there?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘You work for them. Casper May and Malachy Needham, they are in charge of Culture City Cleaners.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I recognise.’

  ‘Did Lee know them?’

  A shrug. ‘I don’t know for sure, mister. I guess so.’

  ‘They also own Cultural Companions, the agency which hired Lee as an escort.’

  Irena nodded. ‘Lee asked if I wanted to make easy money that way.’

  ‘And?’

  She gave a thumbs-down sign, ‘Not for me, mister.’

  Gina dug her elbow into Harry’s ribs and whispered, ‘Look who’s coming over here.’

  Juliet had tired of being ignored by her ex-husband and glared at by a girl half her age and was weaving through the throng, unsteady yet determined in her progress. Harry swore under his breath. His shoulders tautened with tension. He’d never imagined the day would come when all he wanted of Juliet was for her to leave him alone.

  No chance of that. She arrived at their table and subjected the two women to a searching gaze. Harry felt himself reddening. But Gina and Irena weren’t fazed.
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  ‘I’m surprised you lingered at the bar,’ Juliet said. ‘When you have such lovely companions to look after. This young lady, I’ve met before, but her pretty friend I don’t know. Won’t you introduce me?’

  After they had said hello, Gina whispered in Irena’s ear and the Lithuanian girl smiled.

  ‘So, you are wife of the man we work for?’

  ‘You’re with Culture City Cleaners?’ Gina nodded. ‘So was Lee Welch, my friend. The girl who died.’

  ‘Died?’

  ‘Murdered.’ Gina’s voice sharpened. ‘You must have seen it in the papers. They found her body on the beach at Waterloo. She worked for Cultural Companions, as well’

  Juliet pursed her lips. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘She heard something she wasn’t meant to hear. Poor Lee, she was nosey. Loved to eavesdrop. Someone was willing to pay to keep her quiet.’ Harry kicked her leg under the table, but there was no stopping her in full flow. ‘Perhaps it was cheaper to shut her up permanently.’

  ‘Meaning what, exactly?’

  ‘I guess it was someone she worked for,’ Gina said softly. ‘Someone who could afford to buy her silence. Someone ruthless, someone violent.’

  ‘I’ve had enough of this.’ Juliet made a dismissive gesture with her hand. She still wore her wedding ring, Harry noticed. ‘I’m going home.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ Harry said.

  Her eyes rested on him and for an instant he wondered if she was going to ask him to come back with her. But she didn’t say another word, just gave him a curt nod and stumbled off towards the exit.

  Gina and her friend exchanged amused glances. They’d probably written her off as some old lush. But it was a mistake to underestimate Juliet May.

  He finished his drink. Something Juliet had said nagged at the back of his mind, but the harder he racked his brains, the further away the memory skipped. It would come back running if he managed a decent night’s sleep. Chances were, it didn’t matter anyway.

  His eye caught the sinister shades of black and blue in the mural and he remembered the story of the Krell. For all their knowledge and sophistication, their whole race had been wiped out in a single night of frenzy and terror. Destroyed when they unleashed the power of their dark, subconscious desires.

  Darkness was falling as Harry made his way through the car park to his flat in Empire Dock. Gina had failed to talk him into a night on the town. He was flattered when she asked him to tag along, but it wasn’t a good idea. They were too young. Suppose he got lucky? He’d had a few drinks, but not enough to deceive himself. If he finished up in bed with one of the girls, it wouldn’t make them happier in the long run. He was weary and his head throbbed and he needed to be on his own.

  Hard to believe only twenty-four hours had passed since he’d strolled along this same path with Ceri. What was she up to tonight – combing through post-mortem reports? Work was a displacement activity, it took her mind off the loss of her husband. He needed to give her time and space to sort herself out. Trouble was, once she’d sorted herself out, would she give him a second glance?

  Lights danced on the blackness of the Mersey, but Empire Dock was full of shadows. Was Tom Gunter lurking somewhere, ready to strike with fist or knife? Harry asked himself if Tom might have attacked Jim Crusoe, but it didn’t add up. Nothing did.

  Including Ceri’s take on Tom. She was a shrewd judge, but when he’d appeared in her court, Tom Gunter had made an impression on her that Harry didn’t fully comprehend. When she talked about him, disdain was tinged with something else. Was it awe?

  He remembered her saying, ‘He kept himself under perfect control.’ He hadn’t noticed it at the time, but there was a hint of admiration in her voice. She was so controlled herself. Controlled and, perhaps, controlling. She was a coroner, accustomed to being in charge. To exercising her power to making sure justice was done. Justice as she saw it, that is.

  It was raining again, and he quickened his pace towards the apartment block. While he waited for the lift, he decided he could use a hot shower. Wash the day away. Tomorrow morning, he’d visit the hospital and talk to Jim. Something to look forward to.

  As he walked down the corridor, he spotted something that had been pushed halfway under his front door. He bent down to pick it up.

  A single sheet of paper. It bore two words in a crude and childish hand.

  Midsummer’s Eve.

  He ripped the paper into tiny shreds and fumbled with his key in the lock. His hand was shaking, and the door wouldn’t open. He closed his eyes, and uttered a few quiet words of prayer.

  Midsummer’s Eve was ninety minutes away.

  The Sixth Day

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Harry slept badly, jerking into wakefulness time after time as the night crawled on. His thoughts darted down avenues that led nowhere. His eyes itched and his body was stiff as he stretched under the duvet. No chance of rest until Midsummer’s Eve had come and gone.

  For once he was up before his alarm screamed. He drew the bedroom curtains and opened the window. Midsummer’s Eve, but the sky was the colour of slate and the air felt damp. Some things never changed. A June Saturday in Liverpool wouldn’t be the same without the imminent threat of a downpour.

  A helicopter engine droned, somewhere out of sight. In the distance, the ferry chugged past the site of the new cruise liner terminal, otherwise the river was empty. Once giant ships had filled it. Even the last act of the American Civil War was played out here, when the Shenandoah lowered and furled its flag for the last time in the Mersey. The captain preferred to surrender to the Royal Navy rather than face the humiliation back home. Pub quiz facts surfaced from the trivia pool in Harry’s brain. The first shot of the war was fired by a cannon from Duke Street, and the warship Alabama was built at Cammell Lairds’ yard to wreak havoc along American shores, sinking Union ships and capturing their crew. Forever cussed, Liverpool gave aid and comfort to the Confederacy even when the cause was lost. Long after abolition in Britain, the slave trade provided rich pickings for the city’s cotton merchants.

  Slavery. Wherever he turned, there was no escape from reminders of the way people were bought and sold. It hadn’t ended with the Shenandoah. He thought about the foreign girls brought to England to scrub floors and, if they were pretty enough, to keep the company of any man willing to pay. Denise Onuoha and Lee Welch were naïve young women who dreamt of fame and fortune and finished up dead on a beach, their ambitions scattered like grains of sand.

  He hadn’t known Denise or Lee, but his gorge rose at the thought of Kay, lying dead in a thicket beneath Runcorn Bridge. Murdered by a man she loved and who cared so little about her that he made her sell herself in the weeks before he ended her life.

  It was as if he’d stared all week at a Magic Eye picture and failed to decode the image concealed within the elaborate pattern. While he stood at the window, the breeze blew his ideas around. Tom was a killer, and Ceri could no longer deny it. Yet she’d seemed to want to defend the man.

  ‘The police are nowhere near finding the man who killed those poor girls,’ she’d said. And then: ‘Tom Gunter? I don’t believe it.’

  Did she fancy Tom? He succumbed to a pang of jealousy, but told himself it was absurd. She wasn’t the type to go for a bit of rough and, besides, she knew Tom was a borderline sociopath. Yet she didn’t want Harry to suspect him of the murders, so much was clear. She’d done her best to nudge his attention elsewhere.

  Had she found him attractive, allowed him to touch the same smooth skin that Harry had caressed? She’d talked of her husband suffering rejection, but he’d assumed she meant her obsession with her job, instead of her man. Surely she’d not betrayed Ricky by sleeping with Tom Gunter?

  Yet Tom had come into money, more than he could make from booting up a few computers. If he’d had an affair with the coroner, he might have blackmailed her afterwards into paying him to keep quiet. Even though he hadn’t been convicted of murdering that neighbour of his, if n
ews leaked out that he’d slept with Ceri, it would be enough to kill off her chance of ever becoming Chief Coroner.

  Kay’s last message was stamped on his brain.

  I overheard him talking to someone and what he said was terrifying. He’s done something bad, that’s how he found the rent for our new apartment. This time he is in too deep to get away with it.

  If someone doesn’t stop him, he’ll kill someone else.

  Who was Kay afraid that Tom might kill – Ceri Hussain, if she refused to fork out any more blackmail money?

  No, no, no. He couldn’t accept that Ceri and Tom had been lovers, but he was afraid about what she might have done. He yearned to talk his suspicions through with her, see if he’d deceived himself. It wouldn’t be the first time. But if he turned up at her house, she might slam the door in his face. Why hadn’t he seen it until now? Beneath the courtroom calm, she was terrified.

  He showered and guzzled a couple of slices of burnt toast with marmalade before ringing Carmel. The moment he heard her cheery hello, he offered up a prayer. She sounded happy. Jim must be on the mend.

  ‘The nurse said you can see him this morning. If you’re free.’

  ‘I’ll be right over.’

  ‘Are you on your own?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘I wondered if Ceri might be with you.’

  ‘She’s still mourning her husband.’

  ‘Ricky Hussain? Come on.’ Carmel clicked her tongue. ‘I mean, I’m sorry he’s dead, but…’

  ‘But what?’

  A heavy sigh. ‘I told you what he was like. One of those men who never mastered the art of eye contact. He didn’t understand that breasts don’t have eyes.’

  ‘You really disliked him, didn’t you?’

  ‘Frankly, Ceri was far too good for him. When he chatted me up that time, I asked what his wife would think.’ Carmel snorted. ‘According to Ricky, she spent too much time with the dead, not enough with the living. He wasn’t much good as a salesman, he certainly didn’t close the deal with me.’