Waterloo Sunset

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Begging, eh? I ought to thank you, really. You gave a purpose to my life. I managed to pull myself together well enough to create a new identity, without even changing my name. You’d be surprised how easy it is to convince people that you are rich and successful. Of course, I took risks. It’s what entrepreneurs do. Trust me, I read management books till the bullshit was leaking out of my ears.’

  Harry was thinking about Gina. How to get her out of this in one piece?

  ‘Persuading Tamara to let me house-sit for her was a stroke of luck. It was easier to be on the spot as Midsummer’s Eve drew near. I always wanted this to be your last day. There’s a symmetry about it. I wanted to rattle your cage, make you realise something bad was going to happen. The fake press clipping about your death, the message on your home answering machine, the mess I made of your room. Childish, perhaps, but I knew your imagination would fill in the gaps.’

  ‘And Jim?’

  Wayne frowned. ‘He has no imagination whatsoever, no point in twisting his tail. I didn’t much care whether he lived or died. The only essential was that, if he survived, he shouldn’t be able to identify me. As Fate would have it, Victor Creevey called on me. He dropped a hint that you were planning to visit when you thought I was safely away at the Burning Deck.’

  Bloody Victor. He’d lied about seeing Wayne catch a cab, as well.

  ‘My only fear was that someone would spot me dumping you both down the tunnel vent. It’s a quiet spot, and covered in undergrowth, but you can never be sure someone won’t stick their nose in. Thank goodness, there wasn’t a hitch. I’ve spent a fortnight flirting with Victor, and today it paid off. He’s really taken a dislike to you, Harry. You ought to be more careful about making so many enemies.’

  Wayne paused for breath, and gave a cheerful wink as he pointed towards the darkness and the guillotine.

  ‘Too late for that now, though, eh?’

  Harry made a sudden effort to squeeze out of his bonds, but he couldn’t free himself. In an instant, Wayne punched his face and shoved him back onto the ground.

  He couldn’t help whimpering. His cheek hurt like hell. The bone must be broken.

  ‘Not a good boy. Next time you do something silly, your fingers go under the guillotine. Probably some other bits too. Don’t provoke me, Harry. You can’t guess the times I’ve rehearsed this. Not that it’s as easy to practise tying someone up with wire. Behave while I light another candle.’

  A match flared in the darkness.

  ‘Look past the guillotine,’ Wayne instructed. ‘See the gap in the floor of the tunnel?’

  Harry followed his gaze.

  ‘That hole leads to a disused sewer. It’s a ten foot drop, and the channel’s filled with water. Take a look at your final resting place. They won’t find you for ages. Or your head. Maybe not even when work starts on renovating the tunnel. Who knows, you may finish up beneath a brand new rail track.’

  ‘And you?’ Harry muttered.

  ‘I’ll climb back up to ground level and wander along the Northern Line until the last express is due. I’ll step in front of it, and everything will be done and dusted.’

  Harry turned his head back to look at Wayne. Behind him, Gina had her eyes wide open. A frantic light shone in them. When she shifted her arms, he understood her meaning.

  He must distract Wayne’s attention, if only for a split second.

  He took a breath, and uttered a high-pitched scream of agony. It didn’t require much imagination. Every inch of his body seemed on fire.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  Wayne bent towards him, face contorted in fury. As he moved, Harry saw Gina launch herself at their captor. Her legs were still tied together, but her hands were free. She hit out at Wayne, and he lost his balance. As he flailed with arms outstretched, trying not to fall to the ground, she stabbed her fingers into his eyes.

  Wayne yelled with pain.

  Harry summoned his last ounce of energy and lashed at Wayne’s temple with his bound legs. Wayne gasped, but heaved himself away from Gina’s frantic assault. She was spitting and flailing and gouging. In his confusion, Wayne crashed into the table behind him.

  The guillotine came crashing down and Wayne made a desperate effort to dodge the falling blade. He slipped and went head over heels. Harry heard a strangled cry and a thudding splash.

  Wayne had disappeared into the hole in the ground.

  Gina pulled off the wires that tied her ankles. It took a couple of seconds while Harry struggled to free himself. She flung her small frame at him and unfastened his wrists and legs. As he rubbed his arms to relieve the numbness, she tore off the tape that covered her mouth.

  ‘Amazing,’ he gasped. ‘How did you manage that?’

  In the feeble candlelight, her face was dirty and he was sure she was choking back tears, but from somewhere within she conjured up a smile of triumph.

  ‘Don’t forget, you’re talking to Harriet Houdini.’

  The Seventh Day

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  A blustery evening on the beach at Waterloo. The Iron Men stared out to sea, but kept their thoughts to themselves. Harry and Gina limped across the sand, making for nowhere in particular. They’d been patched up in Casualty the previous night, and although Harry’s head throbbed where Wayne had struck it, the doctors reckoned the concussion had done no lasting harm. The rest of his body felt sore and old, but he’d live.

  Unlike Wayne. The fall into the sewer had broken his neck.

  The sky was beautiful, with the last lingering light of day. Red, yellow and orange hues cast reflections that shimmered upon the dark water. The motionless shadows stood at intervals along the beach, as far as the eye could see.

  ‘I love the statues,’ Gina said. ‘I like to imagine they are alive.’

  They’d driven here from the hospital. Ceri had slipped into a coma. The overdose had damaged her liver beyond repair, and the doctors didn’t expect her to live. Jim was taking tentative steps along the road to recovery. Carmel had been thrilled to meet Gina; she’d got it into her head that at last Harry had found a girlfriend. She didn’t understand.

  Gina had come back with him to Empire Dock on Saturday night. After what had happened in the tunnel, neither of them wanted to be alone. He’d taken the sofa, she’d had his bed. No question of their making love; they’d been too bruised and weary for anything but sleep.

  ‘What did Mrs May want?’ Gina asked.

  Juliet had called round at the flat earlier, and he’d answered the door in his dressing gown.

  ‘Just checking that you’re still in one piece.’

  ‘For the time being.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ She cocked an ear as Gina padded around in the living room. ‘Do I gather you have company?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  She mustered a smile. ‘Look after yourself.’

  ‘And you.’ As she turned away down the corridor, he called out, ‘Thanks for yesterday.’

  ‘It was nothing,’ Juliet said, without looking back.

  As the sun slid towards the horizon, Gina’s hand touched his. The words and rhythms of that old favourite song jangled in his brain. He’d last heard it at the Alhambra, whose turrets he could see poking above the houses, pointing to the heavens. He’d been accompanied by Ceri Hussain. It felt like a scene from another lifetime.

  He clasped Gina’s fingers, and whispered the words.

  ‘As long as I gaze on Waterloo Sunset,

  I am in paradise.’

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I must record my gratitude to those friends, clients, and colleagues who have offered help of many different kinds with this book. As a Liverpool-based solicitor writing about another Liverpool-based solicitor, I am keen to make the point that Harry Devlin’s life is not mine; and a good thing too. Similarly, his Liverpool is in some respects a fictional construct. As before, I have taken liberties with the real city and its topography, both for the purposes of the story and in the hope of avoiding
even accidental collisions between the real and imaginary worlds. So, for example, John Newton House, the Stapledon Bar, the Waterloo Alhambra, the Indian Summer Care Home, the Liverpool General Hospital, the Burning Deck, and the Salthouse Quarter are fictitious. The Liverpool Police Authority is an invention, not to be confused with the Merseyside Police Authority; however, the real City Coroner does work in the Cotton Exchange, and the gardens of St Nicholas Church and Liverpool Cathedral are fascinating oases in the city centre. Antony Gormley’s Iron Men have so far survived all attempts to evict them from the Sefton shores, and there were indeed, at the time of writing, plans to re-open the Waterloo railway tunnel. A number of other real-life landmarks are mentioned, including (to give its precisely correct name) the Britannia Adelphi Hotel. It goes without saying that all the characters and organisations taking an active part in the story-line are my inventions and not intended to have even a vague resemblance to any counterparts in real life, but as a lawyer, I cannot resist the temptation to say it anyway, and to add that any resemblance that might exist is wholly coincidental.

  A good many people – too many for them all to be listed – have given of their time and expertise to answer my innumerable questions and requests for support. However, I would like to express special thanks to some of them. Andre Rebello, HM Coroner for Liverpool, generously provided me with extensive insight into the life and work of a modern coroner and made interesting suggestions which influenced my account of the inquest into the death of Nesta Borth. My discussions with Andre left me with enormous admiration for the challenging, yet exceptionally important work that coroners do. Jean Harkin, a fellow Liverpool solicitor and a part-time coroner, also contributed helpful information. Philip Tarleton, managing director of Meade, King, Robinson & Co Ltd, and Denis Maxwell gave assistance which helped me to create John Newton House. Francis Cassidy, chief executive of Crosby Plaza Cinema, Rupert Hoare, until his recent retirement the Dean of Liverpool Cathedral, and Neil Scales, chief executive of Merseytravel, all gave me the benefit of their knowledge and expertise, while Mai Lin Li of Kirklees Libraries supplied insights which helped with the portrayal of Ka-Yu’s life. Margaret Jackson and John Hollingsworth of Aintree Hospital provided background know-how for the hospital scenes. Paul Charles, a fellow crime writer and musicians’ agent, persuaded Ray Davies, the legendary composer of ‘Waterloo Sunset’, to grant permission to reproduce a portion of the lyrics. Ann Cleeves, Rosa Plant and Juliet Doyle were among those who made valuable comments on aspects of the manuscript. My agent Mandy Little, my British publisher Susie Dunlop, my American editor Barbara Peters and my American publisher Rob Rosenwald, were all as supportive as ever. So were my long-suffering family: my wife Helena, my son Jonathan and my daughter Catherine. Jonathan deserves special thanks, in particular, for his work on designing and maintaining my website, www.martinedwardsbooks.com.

  MARTIN EDWARDS

  About the Author

  MARTIN EDWARDS was born in Cheshire. He read Law at Oxford and then trained as a solicitor. He is married with two children, and is currently a partner at Mace & Jones law firm, based in Liverpool and Manchester. The author of the acclaimed series of legal mysteries featuring Harry Devlin, he is also a critic and has edited various short story collections.

  www.martinedwardsbooks.com

  By Martin Edwards

  LAKE DISTRICT MYSTERIES

  The Coffin Trail

  The Cipher Garden

  The Arsenic Labyrinth

  The Serpent Pool

  HARRY DEVLIN NOVELS

  Waterloo Sunset

  Copyright

  Allison & Busby Limited

  13 Charlotte Mews

  London W1T 4EJ

  www.allisonandbusby.com

  First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2008.

  This ebook edition first published in 2012.

  Copyright © 200 by MARTIN EDWARDS

  Lyrics to ‘Waterloo Sunset’ © Ray Davies 1967

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978–0–7490–1396–7