Yesterday's Papers

by Martin Edwards

  ‘But might there be sensitive information in one of your files?’ she persisted. ‘Something that someone would like to be kept quiet?’

  Harry ran through his current caseload in his mind before shaking his head. ‘I can’t think of anything out of the ordinary.’

  Lynn DeFreitas tiptoed through the mess towards the door. ‘Perhaps it was spite? A client who feels you’ve let him down?’

  ‘There are no such people,’ said Jim hastily. ‘This feller somehow manages to have the villains eating out of his hand.’

  ‘Chummy with the criminal classes, are you?’

  ‘Don’t worry, we know when to keep our distance.’

  ‘The last solicitor who said that to me is in Strangeways at present, serving eighteen months for assisting a client to escape from police custody.’ She smiled again to soften her words and Harry noticed the frank interest with which Jim returned her gaze. Pleasantly, she said, ‘Looks like common or garden vandalism, then.’

  ‘I guess. And thank God, it could have been so much worse.’

  Harry followed them out and back down the corridor, but he said nothing. It had occurred to him that in his briefcase was one set of papers which would have meant nothing to any of his clients yet which might have been the object of the burglar’s search. He must look again at Cyril Tweats’ file on the strangling of Carole Jeffries.

  He left Jim and the policewoman deep in conversation and his secretary Lucy to the thankless task of bringing a semblance of order to the chaos of his room. He had a date in court with Tina Turner.

  Unfortunately, Bettina Mirabelle Turner, a twenty-seven-year-old white Caucasian female from a tower block in Dingle, was less glamorous than her celebrated namesake, although equally vivacious. This Tina was up for the umpteenth time on a soliciting charge and when the magistrates imposed a fine that she could pay off with a couple of afternoons’ work in one of the big city centre hotels, she blew them a kiss in relief and almost found herself locked up for contempt of court.

  ‘How’s business?’ asked Harry outside. He knew perfectly well that if the prospect of AIDS or a beating did not deter his client from her chosen profession, judicial sanctions were hardly likely to do so.

  ‘Never better, chuck,’ said Tina, showing countless teeth in a vast smile. ‘If I had another pair of legs, I’d open up in Manchester. Mind, some of me clients have fallen on hard times, like. Last week I asked this feller if he’d like a blow job and all he wanted to know was whether it would affect his dole money.’

  Harry laughed and said goodbye, but rather than heading back for the office, he ensconced himself in the passenger seat of his MG and began to reread the Edwin Smith file.

  Not one word, not one unguarded sentence gave him an inkling as to why any burglar might be desperate to steal the file from him. The only suggestion that Smith was innocent of the killing of Carole Jeffries came in the note of his prison cell retraction, which in turn had been so speedily retracted. Harry reflected that Lynn DeFreitas’ assumption that the break-in had been the work of a juvenile vandal, like so many simple solutions to seemingly baffling puzzles, was probably correct. He sighed and set off for his meeting in Sefton Park.

  Everywhere was quiet as he parked his car opposite the lake. The trees were bare and the wind was sweeping through the wide open spaces. The place was deserted apart from the usual dauntless dog-walkers, a couple of truanting schoolboys and Ernest Miller, who was sitting on a bench overlooking the water, deep in thought. An empty plastic sandwich box, a thermos flask and the document case which seemed to act as his comfort blanket were at his side. Not until Harry was within a dozen yards did the old man look up.

  ‘You have made good time, Mr Devlin. Thank you for coming.’ The muscles around his mouth twitched in a smile as he waved a hand towards a neatly tended shrubbery. ‘So this is where it happened, all those years ago. Carole’s body was found over there, look. She was attacked on the path you see to your right and her killer then pulled her as far as a clump of bushes which used to grow where I am pointing.’

  Harry contemplated the scene. It seemed so quiet and empty that a man with less imagination would have found it impossible to picture the crime. But the words from Edwin Smith’s confession statement echoed in Harry’s head. I wasn’t going to tell you this, but I really fancy you. Could this conversation with Carole on that fateful day have been fiction? Or was Miller mistaken and everyone else right all along?

  He sat beside the old man and placed his folder of papers on his lap. ‘Here is the file. I can’t let you take it away. But feel free to look through it.’

  ‘I do appreciate your assistance,’ said Miller, yet although he stretched out a hand for the folder, he did not fall upon it with the greedy relish that Harry had anticipated. Instead he leafed through the documents as casually as a guest glancing at a dull host’s holiday snaps.

  ‘Look at Edwin’s confession. You’ll see why the police thought it had the ring of truth.’

  Miller turned to the statement and raised his eyebrows after reading it. ‘I take your point, but where is the retraction?’

  Harry turned to the pages which recorded Cyril’s meeting with his client. ‘His solicitor didn’t pay it much heed.’

  After studying the notes, Miller gave a brief nod. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Intriguing, isn’t it?’

  ‘The notes and correspondence are immaculately typed, don’t you agree?’ said Miller, evading the question with an enigmatic smile. ‘And remember, this was in the days when people took a pride in secretarial work, long before word processors robbed us of yet another skill.’

  ‘I thought you would be more concerned with Edwin Smith’s attempt to claim innocence.’

  ‘Yes, yes, it bears out what I have been arguing, does it not? And I think his denial is entirely plausible, even though your predecessor poured cold water on it.’

  ‘Cyril Tweats was hardly infallible.’

  ‘And yet a man’s life rested on his advice.’ Miller shook his head. ‘The power that lawyers exert ... it is remarkable.’

  ‘I never noticed it myself.’

  ‘Come now. When careers end, reputations are ruined, marriages crumble or death comes, you and your professional colleagues are consulted. People dare not move a muscle without your say-so. Oh yes, if I had my time again, I would be a lawyer. As it is, I would be grateful if you could assist me with my little bit of legal business. If you remember, I have decided that I really ought at last to make a will.’

  ‘You need to speak to my partner, Jim Crusoe. I know as much about the law of inheritance as I do about the second law of thermodynamics.’

  ‘I doubt whether an appointment will be necessary. My wishes are straightforward and I have written them down.’ He opened the document case but as he did so, a couple of red files slipped out together and fell to the ground, with several sheets fluttering out of them. Miller bent down to pick them up, wheezing and cursing himself for his own clumsiness as he stuffed them back into place.

  ‘I am not a fit man, Mr Devlin, as you can tell. It is right that I should put my affairs in order.’

  He replaced one file in the case. It was marked CAROLE JEFFRIES and Harry recognised it as the one he had seen in the Wallace. From the other, marked PERSONAL, Miller drew out a sheet of lined paper bearing a list of figures and instructions scripted in immaculate calligraphy which he handed to Harry. ‘I trust you and your partner will not object to acting as my executors?’

  Probates were where the money lay. Harry nodded his agreement, his interest rising as he took in the details of assets and savings, personal effects and shareholdings.

  ‘You were too modest on the telephone. I see that your estate is quite sizeable.’

  Miller shrugged. ‘I had a reasonably well-paid job for many years and neither my late wife nor I
were extravagant with money, quite the reverse. Even so, I recognise the truth of the old saying. I can’t take it with me.’

  He had set out, in clear if pedantic prose, the intended destination of his wordly goods and Harry opened his eyes wide as he read the instructions.

  ‘You propose to leave everything to the Miscarriages of Justice Organisation?’

  ‘They are a worthy charity, are they not? And short of funds, too, I should guess, like so many other deserving causes.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Harry. If anything could make Kim Lawrence whoop with delight, he suspected it would be the news of Miller’s gift. He had not imagined the old man as an altruistic benefactor. ‘But...’

  ‘You are plainly startled by my largesse. Let me try to explain. I said to you when we first met that I find the question of justice fascinating. People sometimes say that justice delayed is justice denied, do they not? I suspect the reality is that justice is invariably delayed and often denied altogether. Well, if the relatively modest sum I have to give will be of value, that is enough for me.’

  ‘Don’t you have any family at all?’ Harry did not feel he was being disloyal to Kim Lawrence in putting the question. The last thing she would want would be for some long-lost relative to turn up out of the blue and contest the will. Now was the time to discover if there were any likely claimants.

  ‘I am a widower, as you will have gathered. My wife died ten years ago and we had no children, nor any other family ties. I left Germany as a young man after the death of my parents and I had no brothers, sisters or cousins. If you and Mr Crusoe do agree to act as my executors, I think you will find the task straightforward.’ Miller gave him a stern look. ‘No excuse for over-charging.’

  Harry grinned. ‘I’d say “trust me”, but I don’t expect you’re the kind of chap who trusts anyone and I can’t blame you for that.’

  ‘Mr Devlin, you strike me as tolerably honest, if that is not damning you with too much faint praise.’ Miller passed him the file. ‘Here you will find a few odds and ends that your partner might need in preparing the document. No doubt you will return them to me when the will is ready for signature.’

  ‘It won’t take long. I’ll ask him to let you have it as soon as possible.’ He glanced inside the folder and picked out a small booklet and a clip of yellowing papers. ‘I see you have a pension and some insurance. What did you do when you were working?’

  ‘I was personnel manager with a small firm of printers in the city. I spent years doing battle with the trade unions, but in the end it was computerisation which hit us hardest. I made half the workforce redundant and then found myself out of a job as well.’

  Harry nodded. So much for Jim’s belief that technology was the answer to everything, he thought. Along with its benefits, it brought cuts in employment: not all the changes it made to people’s lives were for the better.

  ‘I’ve seen it happen before.’

  ‘Perhaps it was for the best,’ said Miller. ‘I had always suffered badly from asthma and I found the pressures of business life were becoming intolerable. Besides, I realised in the end that I was not ideally suited to the work I was doing and in particular my role as welfare officer.’ He smiled his discomfiting smile. ‘People have always intrigued me, you see. Yet eventually I discovered I like very few of them.’

  ‘Misanthropy isn’t the ideal qualification if you’re planning to reincarnate as a solicitor.’

  ‘But you do not have primarily a welfare role. You delve for facts, organise them, then present your case. It does not matter if you loathe your client. You certainly need not love him.’

  ‘Maybe it’s as well,’ said Harry, thinking of the thieves, rapists and murderers for whom he had acted over the years.

  ‘As for Mr Tweats, my impression is that his main concern was to wash his hands of young Smith. He never seems for a second to have doubted his guilt.’

  ‘But you must agree that the evidence was damning. How could Smith have known about the scarf, for instance, unless he actually committed the murder?’

  ‘Could it be that he saw Carole Jeffries wearing the scarf that day and, knowing she had been strangled, made a fortunate guess at the murderer’s means?’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I am no psychiatrist, Mr Devlin. I cannot explain the workings of an inadequate mind. But that is my best guess, following my telephone conversation with Renata Grierson.’

  ‘What did she tell you?’

  ‘At first she was most reluctant to say anything, but when I pressed her, eventually she said that she was positive that it was impossible for Edwin Smith to have killed Carole Jeffries. When I asked why, all she would say was that she had not learned of that impossibility until after Smith’s own death. Hence her silence until now. Evidently I am the first person in whom she has confided the truth.’ Miller gave a satisfied smile. ‘So far she has been reluctant to divulge all she knows about the case but I am hopeful that soon she will be more forthcoming. I plan to meet her in the near future, but in the meantime I think you will agree that her remarks are as fascinating as they are significant.’

  ‘It all sounds vague to me. Are you sure she wasn’t simply telling you what she guessed you wanted to hear?’

  ‘Of course that thought has crossed my mind, but I am happy to trust my instinct. I do not doubt her sincerity.’

  ‘What of Ray Brill, then? Did he shed any light?’

  Miller fiddled with the buttons of his coat. Harry could sniff evasion in the air. ‘He was unable to add anything of substance so far as the murder of Carole was concerned. Although he had seen her on the morning of the twenty-ninth of February, he then set off to London in the company of his singing partner, Ian Brill. There was no way that he could have been the culprit.’

  Miller was choosing his words with even more care than usual. Taking a leaf out of Patrick Vaulkhard’s book, Harry decided that gentle flattery was the method most likely to draw him out. ‘You have obviously been busy. How many other people involved with the case are you hoping to see?’

  ‘Frankly, Mr Devlin, I am far from sure. Benny Frederick and Clive Doxey, of course, are in the public eye and easy enough to find, should I wish to do so. Renata proved by far the most elusive of those connected with the case: in the end, I had to resort to advertising in the local press. All I knew was her maiden name, but happily she saw my advert and called me up. It was much easier to trace the whereabouts of Kathleen Jeffries; Shirley, the girl with whom Carole worked; and Deysbrook, the policeman who headed the murder team. Fortunately, all of them still live in Merseyside.’

  ‘Did Kathleen ever remarry?’

  Miller shook his head. ‘By all accounts, she has been something of a recluse since her husband died.’

  ‘And Shirley, what has happened to her?’

  ‘Thirty years ago, her surname was Basnett. She has changed it several times since then. I gather her third husband, a man named Titchard, died recently, leaving her a wealthy widow.’

  ‘So you might speak to each of them?’

  ‘As I say, I may decide to change my original plans. After all, I have established to my own satisfaction that Smith was not guilty of the crime. On reflection it would, perhaps, be hoping for too much if I were to press on with my investigation in the vain belief that I might be able to identify her killer.’

  ‘That’s not the way you were talking when we first met.’

  ‘Perhaps I became carried away with myself on that occasion. But I feel I shall probably rest content once I have met and talked in greater detail to Renata Grierson and ascertained precisely why she is so confident that Edwin Smith was no murderer.’ Miller smiled his infuriating smile and handed back the old Tweats file. ‘Thank you, Mr Devlin. I do appreciate your help.’

  Harry found himself becoming irritated. At the precise moment when M
iller had aroused his curiousity in the Sefton Park case, the old man was giving the impression that his own enthusiasm was beginning to wane. Or was he simply seeking to discourage further inquiries now that he had seen Cyril Tweats’ papers? Harry decided it was time to tease him.

  He tucked the file under his arm and said casually, ‘Better look after this. I have the idea you aren’t the only person interested in it.’

  He felt a childish sense of gratification to see Miller’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Oh really?’

  ‘My office was burgled during the night. Nothing seems to have been stolen and it crossed my mind that the intruder might have been looking for this.’

  Miller stared at him. Harry had the impression that the old man’s mind was working rapidly, but when he spoke again, his manner was elaborately patronising. ‘A far-fetched notion, surely? You and I are the only people who knew of my interest in the file.’

  ‘Unless,’ said Harry gently, ‘you happened to mention it to Renata Grierson, say - or Ray Brill.’

  ‘Oh ... I am sure I did not. No, Mr Devlin, you are mistaken. Depend upon it.’

  But looking at Ernest Miller’s pensive expression, Harry suspected that he had made no mistake.

  Chapter Ten

  people can judge my confession

  ‘Is he dying?’ demanded Jim Crusoe an hour later.

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware,’ said Harry. ‘Miller is one of those characters who always seems to be ailing but the old bugger will probably outlive the lot of us.’

  ‘His will is straightforward. I can let you have the engrossment before the end of the day if you want.’

  ‘Thanks. I may want an excuse for another word with Mr Ernest Miller before too long. So if you can prepare it quickly, so much the better.’

  ‘No problem. Mind you, if we had the latest software, we could turn out any document based on the standard precedents in a matter of minutes at the press of a button. Do you know what we’re missing by not having the latest packages?’

  ‘No, but from the evangelical light in your eyes, I’m afraid you’re going to tell me.’