‘Harry, where have you been the last twenty-five years? Haven’t you seen what people from my part of the world can do in the name of religion? If they can blow bits off the bodies of folk they don’t even know, who never did them a single injury, what chance is there for me if someone like Dermot decides I need to be taught a lesson?’
‘So what happened?’
‘She booked into a private clinic. It was my idea, I let her have a little nest egg of mine.’ Finbar closed his eyes. ‘Anyway, there were problems with the anaesthetic. God knows what went wrong, but she never came round again.’
‘She died in the clinic?’
‘With all the pricey medical expertise at hand,’ said Finbar bitterly. ‘Eileen, who’d never had a day’s illness in her life, who had so much left to look forward to, killed undergoing an operation that was all my fault.’
‘Shit,’ said Harry. ‘What did you tell the McCrays?’
Finbar shifted from foot to foot. ‘Fact is, Harry, I didn’t tell them anything. There was no point. I couldn’t bring her back. They had plenty to grieve about without knowing their daughter had been seduced by a man old enough to be her dad.’
‘And you didn’t relish the prospect of Dermot taking revenge?’
Finbar’s expression was grim. ‘There’s no telling what a bereaved father might do. Specially a hard man like Dermot McCray.’
‘So how did he find out you were Eileen’s boyfriend?’ Harry had already described his brief encounter with McCray at Fenwick Court. ‘From the clinic?’
‘They never knew who I was. I gave her the money, but she made all the arrangements. And not from Baz, either. Eileen told me she’d been talking to him on the bloody air, said she rang him when she was feeling low. Jases, with all those people listening! That sent me into a panic. But she swore she’d never mentioned my name to anyone.’
‘Yet Dermot and Sinead obviously know. They must have found out from someone.’
‘There’s only one explanation. A week or two ago, I was drinking in the De Valera. I’ve not seen Dermot there since Eileen died. Anyway, I’d had one over the eight. Melissa was away visiting some sick relation, so I was on my own. Maybe I got a bit maudlin and the booze began to talk ... late in the night I was chatting to this old pal of mine, Liam Keogh. You’ve met him yourself, I introduced you once in the Dock Brief, remember? I started telling him about Eileen, and before I knew what I was saying, I’d spilled the whole bag of beans.’
‘Do you think he would have told Sinead? Or McCray?’
‘More than likely. Not out of devilment, but he couldn’t keep his mouth shut to save his life. Still, who am I to talk? Liam’s a decent feller, I should’ve kept my own counsel. After all, I’ve never said a word to anyone else. Except yourself.’
‘It’s time for you to tell the police. Unless you want Dermot to succeed with his next attack.’
‘So you think he’s the one who has it in for me?’
‘He has the opportunity as well as the motive. Who else do you know who is likely to be hand in glove with Irish terrorists, people with access to bomb-making equipment?’
‘Maybe you’re right. I must admit I’ve been mulling over the notion. Yet there’s one thing I can’t understand. Dermot never had anything to do with terrorism while I knew him. And this is a private grudge, nothing more.’
Harry leaned forward. ‘Leave Sladdin to ferret out the evidence,’ he urged. ‘Will you speak to him tomorrow?’
‘Maybe I will.’ Finbar exhaled. ‘Now, is there any chance of another glass of your excellent whisky?’
Harry passed the bottle and slumped back into his chair. He felt exhausted. It had been a long day and his headache had worsened. The story of Eileen’s death had dismayed him; although he realised the dangers of moral judgments, he felt he could never regard Finbar in the same way again. There would always be a barrier between them, built of his repugnance for the way his client used the women in his life. But at least it seemed the riddle of the attacks on Finbar had been solved. Harry began to yearn for nothing other than a darkened room and deep sleep.
Finbar kept him up late all the same, supping his booze and telling tall stories of tattoos he had drawn and the people who had worn them. As he dozed, Harry was vaguely aware of his guest illustrating an anecdote with pictures swiftly drawn on paper torn from a Counsel’s notebook he found in the hall, admiring his own handiwork then crumpling the sheets up and tossing them aside. Eventually Harry dropped off and began to dream. Strange creatures, come to life from Finbar’s tattoos, were menacing him: a furious phoenix and a blood-spitting dragon, hate filled tigers and a black butterfly which flapped vast intimidating wings.
When he awoke he became fuzzily aware that it was morning and he was lying on the couch in the living room. His neck was sore and at first he wondered if perhaps he, rather than his client, had been the victim of attempted strangulation. Finally he realised it was simply the result of lying in an uncomfortable position. He stretched complaining limbs and tried to ignore a roaring in his head reminiscent of the noise made by McCray’s navvies.
Finbar, wearing only his trousers, wandered into the living room. From his bare chest, Lady Godiva squinted at Harry with disdain. Her creator seemed well rested and in jovial mood.
‘Don’t you dare utter one cheerful word,’ mumbled Harry, ‘or I’ll finish the job Folley started.’
‘Not in the best of humours, are we? Shame, but the drink does have an effect. And as for Nick - well, we all get overexcited from time to time.’
‘So you’re in a forgiving mood?’
‘I’ve never been a man to hold grudges. It’s not as if it was a serious attempt to kill me, not slap-bang in the middle of a public exhibition.’ Finbar scratched himself under the arms. ‘And after the events of the last day or two, Nick Folley is the least of my worries. Now, can I get you an aspirin?’
‘Never mind the aspirin - why didn’t you put me to bed?’
‘Ah, you looked so peaceful it seemed wrong to disturb you! And since you’d taken my billet on the couch I thought the sensible thing was for me to borrow your bed for the night. No problem about the old sheets, I’m not that pernickety.’ He retuned Harry’s transistor to Radio Liverpool and switched on Pop In, where Baz was dedicating ‘This Guy’s In Love With You’ to Penny Newland. Finbar sang along with tuneless gusto.
Harry crawled off the couch and made himself a coffee. He responded to Finbar’s attempts at conversation with monosyllables which became emphatic only when Finbar said wistfully that he couldn’t expect to impose on Harry’s hospitality for another night. ‘No,’ Harry agreed.
‘Ah well,’ said Finbar with a sigh, ‘I suppose I’d better try and make my peace with Melissa.’
‘You’ll be lucky.’
‘That little - contretemps, shall we say? - last evening was unfortunate, I’ll agree. She was upset, it’s only natural. But she’ll get over it. Women do.’
‘And if not?’
‘Plenty more fish in the sea, Harry.’
There was no arguing with him. Harry finished his coffee. ‘I’ll be off now,’ he said. ‘I have a date in the police cells this morning. Stay here a while if you want. Slam the door behind you when you go. And for God’s sake talk to Sladdin.’
‘Thanks again, mate. I appreciate what you’ve done.’
‘Keep in touch,’ said Harry, unsure whether he meant it.
Harry spent the morning at court representing a couple of scoundrels who regarded arrest as a way of life. When he returned to Fenwick Court, the construction work had stopped, but a couple of McCray’s men were there, talking in low, angry voices. As Harry walked across the courtyard, the atmosphere seemed to him heavy with unspoken menace. He wondered whether he ought to ring the police himself if Finbar reneged on his promise to tell all to Sladdin
.
Sylvia Reid greeted him in reception. He could tell from the curve of her smile that she’d heard good news.
‘Heather called. Jim is due to be discharged later today.’
‘Seriously? That’s wonderful. Though with the National Health Service in its present state, all it means is he’s not in immediate need of intensive care.’
Nevertheless, the message delighted him. As he worked through the urgent post in his own room, he reflected that, but for his partner’s accident, he would never have laid a finger on the Graham-Brown file, and would thus have been spared the dilemmas that now faced him. How was he to tell Rosemary that the Ambroses were unable to complete? And what was he to do about his suspicion that her husband was engaged in some kind of fraud?
He decided against paying another visit to Crow’s Nest House. It might be better, he told himself, to draw her out. He dictated a terse letter to her and her husband, passing on Geoffrey Willatt’s message and asking them to contact him to discuss its implications. Having signed it and asked his secretary to send it first class, he tried to concentrate on the misadventures of the more commonplace crooks he acted for in the criminal courts. But it was no good. Even when the envelope had been entrusted to the Royal Mail, he kept harking back to Rosemary. No point in fooling himself; he hadn’t wanted to take the chance of seeing her again. There was too great a risk that, in her presence, he would let his heart rule his head.
Yet his instinct was, as ever, for action. Sitting on the sidelines could never satisfy him for long. By the end of the afternoon he had decided on a different kind of direct approach; it was time to introduce himself to Stuart Graham-Brown. He would tell his client face to face that the house sale had fallen through, see for himself the reaction his news evoked. Caught off guard, Graham-Brown might be tempted to give his game away.
A glance at the phone book confirmed that Merseycredit’s office was to be found in Tobacco Court and he strolled there through the evening twilight by way of Dale Street, uncertain what his next move should be on arrival. His destination was one of the warren of passageways which had once been Liverpool’s mercantile heartland; a place for trading cotton, crops and animal skins. These days most of the buildings were vacant and in a state of disrepair; the courtyard was home only to Merseycredit, a sex shop, a wine lodge and a greasy spoon cafe. Perhaps, Harry reflected, Tobacco Court should carry a government health warning.
The name of Merseycredit was picked out in gold leaf on a first floor window above the sex shop. An entrance door led to a flight of stairs. Harry hesitated at the bottom, but when he heard people talking upstairs, he dodged out again and studied the card in the sex shop window which warned him not to be shocked if he found ‘adult goods’ on sale inside.
Stuart Graham-Brown, another man and a woman came out into the street and walked past Harry without a glance. They were engrossed in their discussion and made straight for the wine lodge. Harry saw their reflections clearly, despite the dirt and fingermark smudges on the shop window. Graham-Brown’s female companion was a hard-faced blonde in her late thirties and she had her arm wrapped around him. It was clear they were more than just good friends. The other man was Dermot McCray.
Startled, Harry abandoned his idea of confronting his client; whilst Dermot McCray was about, it made sense to steer clear. But why was McCray here? And who was the woman with Graham-Brown?
Bewildered, he retreated to a nearby pub called the Plimsoll Line. It was a new place which occupied the basement of Exchange Precinct, a whimsical architect’s pastiche of a pyramid, funded by grants from the Pharaohs of the European Community. Here, ground-floor shops offered holograms, Japanese wall coverings and cruelty-free cosmetics to a public which preferred to look rather than buy, while most of the offices up above were unlet. According to Stanley Rowe, the rents here were as high as the St John’s Beacon. The mediaeval traders who had once swarmed around Leather Lane, Hackins Hey and Tobacco Court must be turning in their graves.
Over a pint as cloudy as a Merseyside morning, he asked himself why Graham-Brown would plan a flit to Spain with his wife whilst conducting an affair with another woman. Did he intend to ditch Rosemary? And could there be some extraordinary connection between Merseycredit and the attacks on Finbar? None of it made sense.
He finished his drink and went back to the wine lodge. Standing in an alcove just inside the door, he could see McCray arguing with Graham-Brown. As he watched, the quarrel reached its climax. Graham-Brown folded his arms, an elegant but decisive gesture; he had spoken his last word. McCray’s face was purple with rage. He turned on his heel and marched out, passing within a couple of feet of Harry, who had pressed himself against the wall.
Graham-Brown smiled at the blonde and put his hand on her knee. She straightened his tie. Harry toyed with the idea of confronting his client. But what could he say? I know you’re on the fiddle? I’ve discovered you’re deceiving Rosemary, though for the life of me I can’t understand why you prefer a woman with a face as sharp as the edge of an axe?
Lost in thought, he walked home through the city, his progress slowed by a crowd outside the Town Hall protesting to councillors arriving for an emergency evening meeting, called in a hopeless effort to balance the books. These days demonstrators campaigned for the right to work: not so many years ago, they had been fighting for the right to strike.
Back in the flat there was, to his relief, no sign of Finbar. He spent the evening working his way through a six-pack and watching a tape of Vertigo. The way his head was spinning, the choice of movie seemed peculiarly apposite.
Shortly before eleven, the telephone shrilled. Harry suspected it might be the police, calling him in on behalf of a car thief or house burglar - or, even worse, bloody Finbar, wanting a roof over his head for one more night. He poured himself another drink and did not move. But the phone persisted and eventually his resistance crumbled.
‘Hello?’
‘Harry! Thank God you’re there. I was about to give up hope.’
‘Is that you, Melissa? What’s bothering you at his late hour?’
‘I need you here urgently. In my flat.’
‘Melissa! This is so sudden.’
‘Listen, I’m not joking. I wouldn’t disturb you if it wasn’t desperate, but you’re the only lawyer I know.’
‘And why do you need a lawyer at this time of night?’
‘It’s about Finbar.’
Who else?
‘What’s he done now?’
‘I have the police here. They’ve told me he’s been found dead. And they think I killed him.’
Chapter Fifteen
‘I’m not accusing you of anything,’ said Sladdin.
Sitting next to Harry on the sofa in the lounge of her flat in Mossley Hill, Melissa began to shake. She buried her head in her hands and made muffled sobs.
For his part, Harry felt groggy, as if he’d taken a punch full in the face. Finbar’s life had always seemed charmed; it was impossible to believe it was suddenly over. The Irishman had survived so much, he’d come to seem indestructible, and his death had shocked Harry profoundly; it gave him a chill reminder of every man’s mortality. Despite his daze, he had been trying to listen to Melissa’s disjointed answers as intently as the detective, in an effort to chart the course of Finbar’s last day of life. But he was hazily aware that, for the girl’s sake, the time had come for him to intervene.
‘Look, Inspector, Miss Keating has told you all she knows. She’s made it clear that Finbar Rogan was alive and well when he left here this afternoon. And from what you say, I gather he was killed after darkness fell but no later than six.’
‘That is broadly correct,’ said Sladdin in a guarded tone.
Harry sensed the detective was far from certain whether he was interviewing a lover tragically bereaved or a callous murderess; he certainly wasn’t g
iving more away than was necessary. And the timing was critical. For if Finbar had been dead by six o’clock, Dermot McCray could not have killed him, on the evidence of Harry’s own eyes. It must have been twenty past six when the builder had stormed out of the wine lodge and into the night. Harry could remember checking his watch against the Town Hall clock when he passed the demonstrators five minutes later.
The alarm had, according to Sladdin, been raised by a teenage courting couple, who had come across Finbar lying in the middle of a road running alongside the derelict site of Colonial Dock, a place long abandoned by shipping and nowadays frequented by lovers rather than stevedores. They had walked down the road an hour earlier, on their way to the disused hut where they used to make love each evening after school, and the body had not been there then. The sight of it as they headed back for home was one they would never forget.
A car had run over Finbar. Not once, but several times. Even described in Sladdin’s clipped tone, the picture that formed in Harry’s mind was dark with horror. But he knew he must banish the image of the crushed corpse from his thoughts; it was the stuff of nightmares. With a huge effort, he dragged himself back to the here and now.
‘I still don’t see why you’re not treating Finbar’s death as a straightforward accident.’
‘We’re not ruling any possibility out as yet. Nonetheless, the circumstances are suspicious.’
Harry bit his lip. He desperately wanted to hear that Finbar had not been killed on purpose. For if the death was not mischance, and McCray was not responsible, he scarcely dared contemplate an alternative explanation.
‘Remember,’ he insisted, ‘it must have been difficult to see anything at Colonial Dock when the car struck him. I’ve not been that way for years, but as far as I can recall there’s no street lighting there. And the world’s full of hit-and-run joyriders.’
‘Very true,’ said Sladdin, ‘but this particular driver was at the wheel of the car Mr Rogan himself hired earlier today. And as I explained before, having run over him once, the same person reversed and repeated the job a couple of times for good measure. Scarcely an innocent mistake, or even a careless one.’
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