Melissa lifted her head. Harry sensed she was finding it almost impossible to maintain a semblance of self-control.
‘So Finbar must have been murdered?’
‘As I say, we have to consider everything. And that’s why I asked you if you could think of any reason for Mr Rogan to be visiting Colonial Dock this evening.’
‘None - none whatsoever,’ said Melissa edgily. ‘It’s hardly surprising. There were so many things he kept from me.’
Harry felt the conversation was drifting into dangerous waters. ‘Can we leave it there for the moment, please?’ he said to Sladdin. ‘This news has obviously come as a great shock to Miss Keating. And whilst she’s anxious to assist your enquiries, she’s suffered enough for the present.’
Sladdin looked at the silent WPC sitting opposite him, as if to gauge another woman’s reaction to his questioning. After a pause he clambered to his feet, seeming glad of the opportunity to escape from his low rattan chair. Harry sensed the room as a whole would not meet with police approval; it was too arty, with its French posters, studio cushions and kilim rug on the floor. During his brief relationship with Melissa, Finbar had spent a good deal of time in this flat; the attic conversion above his studio which he used as a bedsitting room was poky and unappealing even before the fire had rendered it uninhabitable. But the place bore Melissa’s imprint, not his.
‘Very well, Mr Devlin. You’ll understand I have to pursue my investigations urgently. We’ll be back in the morning; there will be a statement for your client to sign.’
Harry accompanied Sladdin and the WPC to the door of Melissa’s flat. ‘I’m not saying she is my client, Inspector. At present I’m here as a friend rather than a solicitor.’
Sladdin allowed himself a sceptical smile. ‘Afraid of a conflict of interests, Mr Devlin?’
‘You can see the girl’s shocked, Inspector. That’s not put on for your benefit. The thought of her harming Finbar is inconceivable.’
Sladdin pursed his lips. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
With the police gone, Harry returned to the living room. Melissa was blowing her nose; her cheeks were pale, her eyes puffy. She seemed as disorientated as a drunk, but he could smell no alcohol on her breath. He sat beside her on the sofa and patted her hand: not a sexual gesture, but one of support. Yet he could not remain silent.
‘Melissa, is there anything you want to tell me? Anything you didn’t feel able to say to Sladdin?’
Choking back another sob, she shook her head. ‘It was as I described. Finbar came here about one o’clock. He was full of himself, since he’d spent the morning persuading his insurers to let him hire a new car far better than the Granada he lost in the bomb blast. He’d stopped on the way for a couple of drinks, getting up Dutch courage, he said, for apologising to me over his fling with Sophie. It was as if he thought the past could be rubbed out overnight.’
Harry could imagine. With Finbar, every day was a fresh start: an endearing quality in some circumstances, but maddening for those who found it less easy to forget.
‘I-I cried myself to sleep last night. First over losing him, then on top of that the job ... my mind was muddled, I blamed Finbar for everything. When he blithely assumed he could walk straight back into my life, I wanted to lash out and hurt him. A pair of scissors was lying on the table over there.’
Harry closed his eyes. It was hard enough to grasp that Finbar was dead, let alone that Melissa, rather than Dermot McCray, might have been his killer. ‘So you lunged at him?’
Melissa fiddled with a bracelet she wore. ‘I admitted it to the policeman, didn’t I? You should have seen the shock on Finbar’s face as I swung the scissors at him. I was screaming abuse, I’m not sure what I said. He wiped the back of his hand across his cheeks and saw the blood. A surface cut, nothing more, but it must have stung.’
‘Did he fight back?’
‘Grabbed my wrist, made me drop the scissors, nothing more. He was never a physically vicious man. The roughest thing I ever knew him do was nibble my neck.’
The Great Lover would not be doing that again. Harry felt sick in his stomach, but something prompted him to keep on with the questions.
‘What did he say to you?’
‘I don’t think he could believe I might want to hurt him, cause him pain. Finbar always had a blind spot - he could never conceive that, deep down, whatever was said and whatever was done, people might not capitulate to his charm. He saved himself by instinct, but once the immediate shock passed, he seemed sad. He told me I wasn’t myself and I screamed back at him. I said that was exactly what I was, I was myself and I belonged to me, not him. I’d never forgive him for how he’d behaved, humiliating me with Sophie, costing me a job I cared about. Never!’
Harry could picture the scene. Even when confronted by all Sinead’s bitterness, Finbar had failed to grasp why she felt so badly let down. With Melissa, it would have been exactly the same: impossible for the Irishman to understand why a woman who loved him might not be able to tolerate his sneaking her colleague off to a hotel for a little afternoon delight.
‘He kept repeating he was sorry, he’d never meant to make me unhappy, far less get the sack. He was so sure we could go back to where we’d been before he betrayed me.’
‘And you put him right on that score?’
‘Of course. I was furious!’
Harry studied her, trying to see beyond the emotional words and the nervous mannerisms. How angry had Melissa been? Furious enough to kill?
‘So you told him to go?’
‘As I told the policeman. I said he should fuck off back to his fancy woman.’
On her lips, the obscenity sounded shocking. It gave him a clue to her depth of feeling. He needed to be careful how far he pushed her.
‘You mean Sophie?’
‘Who else? I’d gone through enough with Finbar, I wasn’t prepared to take any more. I decided she could have him.’
‘What made you think he still had a chance with her? They seemed at daggers drawn during the argey-bargey last night in Empire Hall.’
‘Oh yes, she’s volatile enough. But I could tell he had something - or should I say someone? - up his sleeve. As soon as he realised he’d get no more change out of me, it was as if he’d written me off his conquest list, for the time being at least, and was ready to move on. No reason why he shouldn’t try his luck with Sophie again. She’s as hungry for sex as Finbar was. It’s common knowledge in the office that she’s got a season ticket to the VD clinic.’
She was saying much more than she had earlier, in answer to Sladdin’s probing. The initial shock of learning that her lover was dead had rendered her almost incoherent; on Harry’s arrival she’d been weeping copiously, with the WPC trying in vain to comfort her. He sensed she was starting to gain strength once more. Might she also be seizing any opportunity to embarrass Sophie and make things difficult for her? Was she taking revenge over her rival regardless of the truth - or was her real motive to divert attention from herself? After all, she lacked an alibi. Sladdin had established that she was unable to prove she had not left Mossley Hill during the afternoon and travelled to the city centre or the dock area, either alone or in Finbar’s company. She said she’d stayed at home all day, too depressed to leave this flat. No one had called and she admitted that none of the neighbours would be able to verify her movements. Most of them worked all day and of the two pensioners in the building, one was stone deaf and the other was living it up on an over-60s trip to Madeira.
‘What sort of mood was Finbar in when he left?’
Melissa gnawed at her fingernails. ‘I don’t know why you’re asking me so many questions. I wanted you here to protect me from an inquisition, not start one of your own.’
‘Sorry,’ he said untruthfully. Was she buying time while she thought up a credible reply? ‘I won’t
bother you much longer, but I’m as keen as anyone to make sure the facts come out, to pinpoint anything which will help the police to find Finbar’s murderer.’
‘Why concern yourself?’ she asked, her tone harsh. ‘He’s dead now. He won’t be paying any more of your bills.’
‘He hardly kept me in luxury whilst he was alive. I seem to have spent most of the past few days defending him from people who had good cause to despise him.’
‘The truth is, you can’t resist poking your nose into other people’s business, can you? This detection thing - it’s a kind of game where you’re concerned.’
Harry felt himself flushing. He was honest enough to accept there was a grain of truth in the slur.
‘Finbar didn’t deserve to die.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion. To answer your question, when he left here he was still in one piece. You’ll have to take my word for it. Knowing him as I do - as I do now, I should say - I expect he was thinking: easy come, easy go.’
Harry winced. Finbar himself had used exactly that phrase.
‘I didn’t ask him for a lift into town, if that’s what you’re hinting. Or arrange to meet him later.’
‘I just wondered - if there was anything else you wanted to say to me, something you might have forgotten to mention to Sladdin in the aftermath of the shock. Or something - it might be entirely innocent - you felt you’d rather not disclose.’
‘You never give up, do you? We’re not in court, Harry, and I’m not on the witness stand.’
‘Look, Melissa I realise things have been tough lately and your emotions...’
‘Emotions! Where Finbar is concerned, I only have one emotion. I’m glad. Not glad he’d dead, so much, simply glad he’s out of my life for ever, and won’t be coming back to treat me like shit ever again.’ For a moment her expression froze in defiance, before dissolving into tears.
Harry hesitated, then put an arm around her shoulder. He expected resistance, but all she did was sob. ‘Cry as much as you like,’ he said. ‘It will do you good.’
She brushed at her damp face with a hand. ‘Oh God, Harry, what a fucking mess. Finbar’s dead and I’m alone and out of work and the world seems to have stopped moving.’
Neither of them said anything for a minute or so. Finally he withdrew his arm.
‘Thanks for coming over,’ she said. ‘I panicked when the police called, didn’t know what else to do but call you.’
‘No problem.’
‘I appreciate it. After all, you were Finbar’s friend, not mine.’ She compressed her lips and gave him a look full of challenge. ‘So - do you think I murdered him?’
He considered Melissa, white-faced and desperate. It was tempting to tell a soothing lie. But in the end he opted for the truth.
‘I really don’t know,’ he said.
Chapter Sixteen
Chewing a slice of cold toast the next morning, Harry asked himself if he really believed Melissa to be capable of murdering Finbar.
A premeditated assassination would surely be beyond her. He could imagine her committing a crime of passion - but not a pre-planned, cold-blooded killing. Her attack on Finbar with the scissors showed she had a dangerous streak; yet she had admitted to it, despite knowing the only other witness was dead. A good defence lawyer could make capital out of that, even though her frankness might be motivated by something other than an innocent devotion to the truth.
What had been the purpose of Finbar’s nocturnal visit to deserted Colonial Dock, whence no ships had sailed in years? He must have known his killer. Harry could not believe that this was a case of accidental death, nor that Finbar would have made his hire car available for a perfect stranger to climb in, seize the wheel and mow him down.
He could still hardly credit that Finbar was dead. All night he’d found it impossible to sleep but now he was up he felt physically drained. Time after time he stole a glance at the telephone, half expecting it to ring. How he would love to pick up the receiver and hear the Irishman announce, like a modern Mark Twain, that reports of his demise were an exaggeration. But for once the phone remained silent.
Strange to think that never again would he be deafened by a burst of Finbar’s exuberant laughter. No more invitations to sink a pint or three at the Dock Brief; no more tall stories about life in Dublin; no more boozy philosophising about why people should want their bodies disfigured by elaborate tattoos. Over the past few days Harry had discovered the selfishness underneath Finbar’s charm. But he couldn’t help mourning the man, all the same.
It was almost half past eight: time for a news bulletin. Harry reached across the breakfast bar and switched on his transistor radio, curious to learn how Radio Liverpool would announce Finbar’s death.
The Who were singing about their generation - they hoped they would die before they got old. It might have been Finbar’s theme song. Harry remembered his client’s rueful confession to the police on the night of the fire: that he had made too many enemies to have any prospect of ever drawing his pension. With hindsight Finbar’s throwaway remark seemed tragically prophetic.
A jingle played and Baz Gilbert said, ‘And in the newsroom, it’s Clive Sheron.’
A young man’s solemn voice said, ‘Merseyside police are treating the death of a well-known local tattoo artist as suspicious. Mr Finbar Rogan, whose body was found at Colonial Dock yesterday evening, had apparently been run over by a motor vehicle, but the driver failed to report the incident. A police spokesman told us that enquiries are continuing.’ Further items followed - about lay-offs at a Halewood factory and Everton’s injury worries in the lead-up to Saturday’s derby game - as Harry pondered Sladdin’s role in the enquiry.
If Special Branch continued to be involved, a terrorist connection with the crime could not have been ruled out. Did that point the finger back at Dermot McCray? Might McCray have been an associate of Pearse Cato back in Ireland in days gone by? Harry thought it possible, despite Finbar’s denial. Yet how could McCray have killed Finbar and drunk with Graham-Brown and his blonde bit-on-the-side at one and the same time?
Of course, McCray might have slipped out of the wine lodge whilst Harry was supping in the Plimsoll Line. However, the idea that he might have done so, quickly taken his revenge on Finbar and then raced back simply to conclude his argument with Graham-Brown stretched credulity to breaking point. Harry suspected that McCray had given Finbar a fright with the fire and the bomb; but someone else had managed to finish him off before the builder had the chance.
All this speculation was, Harry knew, idle; the police were in charge of the investigation and the sensible course - and the soft option - was to leave them to it. But sensible courses and soft options held no appeal for him. Finbar, for all his faults, was entitled to justice. Harry owed it to him to find out what had happened. All his training in the legal process, his learning to see it as trial by combat, adversarial rather than inquisitorial, had never succeeded in smothering his urge to discover the truth. He could feel now the physical signs of the hunger which had in the past cost him dear. The churning in his stomach was familiar, so too the dryness in his throat: no point in pretending otherwise. He couldn’t be satisfied, wouldn’t find peace, while the puzzle remained unsolved.
‘Time for a song from the latest Luther Vandross album,’ said Baz in the background. He sounded relaxed, unaffected by doom and gloom from the newsroom. It was as if he had never met the man whose death had just been reported. ‘Luther’s a special favourite of my lovely producer, Sophie Wilkins, so you can expect to hear plenty more from him for the rest of this week.’
Harry considered Sophie. Last night he’d paid little heed to Melissa’s suggestion that, on leaving her flat, Finbar could have headed straight for Sophie’s arms, because it had seemed so unlikely. Harry’s reading of the row at Empire Hall had been that Sophie’s priority was to re
-establish herself in Nick Folley’s affections; she wouldn’t see any long-term future for herself as one of Finbar’s fancy women. Harry guessed her visit to the Blue Moon had been prompted by a fleeting lust rather than any desire for a more lasting relationship. On the other hand, Finbar was ever the optimist. If anyone had a skin thick enough to turn up again on Sophie’s doorstep, he was the man.
A visit to Radio Liverpool was called for, Harry decided. But before he went there he would need to work out exactly what he intended to do - there must be no more cocked-up confrontations. The humiliating encounter with Dermot McCray in Fenwick Court still burned in his memory.
As he stepped out of the Empire Dock buildings, he felt the morning’s cold bite. Fog shrouded both the river and the city streets. It gave everything an eerie feel, with cars and people suddenly looming from nowhere. As he walked towards the front door of his office, he was struck by the calm of Fenwick Court. It took him a moment to realise the reason for it: there was no sign of McCray’s workers. He peered through the gloom to left and right. It didn’t require a site agent to tell him that the job was barely half done, yet the courtyard was deserted.
‘Where’s the building gang?’ he asked as he entered reception.
Suzanne shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
Finbar’s death should have been mystery enough for him to worry over without the distraction of wondering what had happened to McCray’s men. But their disappearance bothered him and, as he picked up his post and wandered to his room, he began to wonder if it might be connected with their boss’s activities the previous evening. A call from Suzanne interrupted his conjectures.
‘Mrs Graham-Brown’s arrived. She says she must see you. She’s just received your letter about her house sale falling through.’ The girl paused and then added, in a complacent whisper, ‘She seems very upset.’
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