Yesterday's Papers

by Martin Edwards

  ‘We’re going to make ’em sweat,’ confirmed Kevin. In his wife’s presence, he seemed to need to assert his identity, to make it clear that he was relishing the occasion.

  Jeannie nudged Harry in the ribs. ‘Uh-oh. The Gnome’s coming over here.’

  She had thus christened the barrister representing the police authority and Harry had to admit the truth in her gibe. Gordon Summerbee was a tubby man with a red moustache and beard who looked as though he was born to hold a fishing line and squint out over a herbaceous border.

  ‘Patrick,’ he said, ‘I wonder if we might have a word?’

  As the two barristers moved off into a corner, Kevin gave Harry a wink. ‘What d’you reckon?’

  ‘Fingers crossed.’

  ‘Whatever they offer,’ said Jeannie, ‘it can never be enough. Not after what my Kevin’s been through.’

  She gave her husband a smile, intended to be fond, which put Harry in mind of a miser beaming at his gold.

  Kevin nodded vigorously and said, ‘Y’know, I could never have made it without Jeannie.’

  His wife preened, but did not forget to utter the sentiment she always expressed in her interviews. ‘I’ve only done what any woman would do in the same terrible circumstances.’

  She shrugged her overcoat off her shoulders and passed it to Harry, who in her presence often felt like a courtier. Today she was dressed for the photographers, wearing a tight black jersey and a microscopic skirt which revealed seemingly endless legs. Her impressive bosom bore in extravagant orange stitching the legend - WALTERGATE - MY KEV WAS INNOCENT.

  Her Kev said excitedly, ‘Bugger me, that was quick. He’s coming back already.’

  Harry could tell it was good news. Vaulkhard was walking towards them with a sportsman’s swagger.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Jeannie. ‘What have they said?’

  ‘The authority is now willing to make a much improved offer.’

  ‘So I should bloody well hope,’ said Kevin.

  ‘How much?’ asked his wife.

  ‘You need to consider their proposal with care.’

  The way he’s dragging it out, thought Harry, it must be well into six figures.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Jeannie impatiently.

  Vaulkhard named the sum on offer. It was far more than Harry had expected, more even than he had hoped for in his most optimistic moments.

  Kevin whistled. ‘That’s more like it!’

  ‘Shut up,’ Jeannie snapped. She addressed Vaulkhard. ‘We want another thirty thousand.’

  The foxy features twitched. ‘I really would advise...’

  ‘Another thirty,’ she repeated, ‘or we go back into court.’

  Vaulkhard looked at her and then at her husband. ‘If they withdraw the offer...’

  ‘They won’t withdraw it,’ said Jeannie. ‘Go back and tell them we fight on unless they decide to be more realistic.’

  A spasm of uncertainty creased Kevin’s face. He turned to Harry. ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘It’s a gamble, Kevin, but if you’re willing to...’

  ‘Listen,’ cut in Jeannie. ‘We’ve bloody gambled all the way along the line. Now we’ve got them in a corner and I’m betting they’ll cave in.’

  ‘It’s your decision,’ said Vaulkhard sombrely.

  ‘Too bloody right,’ she said.

  Chewing his lower lip, Kevin said, ‘Look, love...’

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ she demanded of the barrister. ‘Go on. Put it to them.’

  ‘Very well.’

  As Vaulkhard walked back to where Summerbee and his cohorts were standing, Kevin swore softly.

  ‘Jeannie, if you fuck this up...’

  ‘Listen. You’d still be sewing sodding mailbags if it wasn’t for me. Now all you need do is keep your trap shut and wait for the busies to cave in.’

  As they bickered, Harry’s thoughts strayed. What would the late Edwin Smith not have given for a last taste of freedom, he wondered, let alone the prospect of financial recompense?

  A new note of urgency in Jeannie’s voice brought him back to the here and now. ‘Look, Paddy’s on his way back!’

  Harry needed merely to glance at the barrister to know that the miracle had occurred. Vaulkhard had on his face an uncharacteristic expression of wonder, like that of a child at Christmas time.

  ‘Well, what did they say?’ called Jeannie. ‘Don’t keep us in suspense!’

  ‘I must congratulate you, Jeannie, on your eye for a bargaining position.’

  ‘You mean,’ demanded Kevin, who always wanted things spelled out, ‘the busies have actually agreed to the extra thirty?’

  ‘Every penny.’

  The couple stared at each other, then each let out a whoop of joy that had the tabloid hacks a few yards away scrambling for their pencils and notebooks. But Jeannie, the true professional, composed herself within seconds.

  ‘It’s a lot of money,’ she said in a grave tone, ‘but cash can never compensate for what we have suffered.’

  She was right, reflected Harry. Cash could not redress every wrong. What of Edwin Smith, he thought again, what if there was indeed a chance to clear his name? In this case money genuinely did not matter. Only if the real murderer of Carole Jeffries was identified could justice finally be seen to be done.

  The Walters’ jubilant press conference over and done with, Harry walked back to the office with Ronald Sou. As usual, the clerk did not encourage conversation: he could make the average Trappist seem like a chatterbox. Harry found himself wondering what Ronald really made of their clients. The only clue he had was the quirk of Ronald’s lips when Jeannie told the man from The Sun that the court case had not been about money, but a matter of principle.

  He had to admit that it was a perfect outcome for Crusoe and Devlin as well. Even on legal aid rates, the fees would smooth the wrinkled brow of their accountant for a long time to come. The only snag was that Jim would want to invest the proceeds in more information technology, while Harry would have been content with a quill pen and a few scraps of vellum. At present the only information he was anxious for was whatever Ernest Miller had kept in the missing red file.

  When they reached New Commodities House, he headed straight for his office. Lying where he had left it on his desk was Cyril Tweats’ file for Edwin Smith. He picked it up and tucked it under his arm. He had finally convinced himself that the burglary here and the disappearance of Miller’s papers were no coincidence. The file was best kept in a safe place. The sooner he returned it to the Land of the Dead, the better.

  Jim poked his head around the door. ‘The conquering hero!’

  ‘You’ve heard?’

  ‘Ronald has just given me the glad tidings. He was beside himself with excitement, by which I mean he gave me a half-smile. How about a celebration drink at lunchtime?’

  ‘Love to.’ He gestured to the file under his arm. ‘And I’ll tell you the story of Cyril Tweats’ unluckiest client.’

  With that he set off for the Pierhead. Crossing the Strand, he saw Kim Lawrence fifty yards ahead of him and put on a spurt to catch her up.

  ‘Not in court this morning?’

  She seemed genuinely pleased to see him. ‘I’ve done my duty. A number of my clients were charged with breach of the peace. They’re anti-nuclear campaigners, and they threw eggs at a junior industry minister who won’t be content until even our tap water is radioactive.’

  ‘Is every case a crusade with you?’

  She gave him a long look. ‘I hope so. And besides, you don’t do so badly yourself. The place was buzzing with news of the Waltergate settlement. Well done.’

  She was not a woman who gave out compliments like calling cards and he felt himself blushing. Quickly, he said, ‘Patrick Vaulkha
rd handled the negotiations. I took a back seat.’

  ‘He’s the best man for a case like that, but I know you were living with it night and day long before he was briefed.’

  They reached the hut on the Pierhead and he unlocked the door which led to Jock’s underground domain. ‘What brings you here? Not on your way to the Land of the Dead, by any chance?’

  ‘I want to collect some files from archive,’ she said, following him down the flight of stairs. ‘I could have waited for the messenger to come round this afternoon or sent my articled clerk Adrian out - it’s become a second home to him anyway, since Jock let him practise the saxophone here - but I need the exercise.’

  He appraised her lean figure and thought about saying that she didn’t look in need of exercise, but he had the feeling that she was not a woman who would respond to such a clumsy line of chat. Instead, as they walked past the old deserted ballroom, he said, ‘I’m glad you’re here. I’m beginning to feel it’s not safe for me to wander around on my own. Since we last spoke, my office has been burgled and I’ve stumbled across the body of a client of mine.’

  ‘I thought that was par for the course with Harry Devlin. The talk round the courts is that you’ve been mixed up with as many mysterious deaths as Inspector Morse. You’re not by any chance a fan of opera?’

  ‘Hate it. I don’t mind some of the tunes but I simply can’t follow the lyrics. As for my own reputation, such as it is, blame my curiosity. It usually gets the better of me - although that isn’t so hard to do. You remember I mentioned the Sefton Park Strangling to you? Ernest Miller, the man who interested me in the case, is dead. I’m more than ever convinced that Edwin Smith, who was found guilty, did not kill the girl. And whoever broke into my office went through all my papers but took nothing.’

  A faint smile slid across her face. ‘But apart from all that, nothing much has been happening? Who were your burglars, undercover investigators from the Legal Aid Board?’

  ‘Can’t have been, they didn’t leave any forms behind for me to fill it. No, my bet is, the intruder was searching for Cyril Tweats’ old file on the case.’ He patted the folder under his arm. ‘I’ve decided to bring it back here, where it’s out of harm’s way.’

  ‘So you’re sure Miller was on to something?’

  ‘He was eccentric, perhaps, but no fool. Incidentally, the good news is that his heart turned out to be in the right place. He didn’t have any family, so he instructed me to draw up a will leaving everything he had to MOJO.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘The bad news is, he died before he got round to signing it.’

  Kim Lawrence stared at him for a moment, then shook her head and swore. ‘So who gets the money?’

  ‘The Crown, presumably. And before you say anything, I know the national finances are in a poor way, but I don’t think the Chancellor of the Exchequer is implicated in Miller’s death.’

  They turned into the archivist’s room and Harry said, ‘Hello, Jock. I have something for you.’

  The little Scot beamed with delight as he was handed the file. ‘You’re not returning the old file you took away the other day, by any chance? Splendid, absolutely splendid! So often I have to chase people up. They forget to send things back here, where they belong.’

  ‘This is the best place for the file of Mr Edwin Smith. Look after it, though. Someone out there would dearly love to get his hands on it.’

  ‘Harry’s involved in another of his mysteries,’ explained Kim.

  ‘So I gather,’ said Jock. ‘Come on, for Heaven’s sake, you must tell us the whole story.’

  ‘It will take a while,’ warned Harry.

  ‘So much the better,’ said Kim. ‘Anything to put off the evil hour when I have to return my phone calls.’

  ‘You’re a woman after my own heart. Okay, here goes.’

  He recounted at length how Miller had first interested him in the Sefton Park case, his discovery of the body and his growing suspicion that the burglary of his office was no coincidence. When he had finished, Jock scratched his bald head in bewilderment.

  ‘What on earth makes you think all these incidents are connected?’

  ‘Come on,’ said Kim. ‘Harry’s a noted amateur sleuth. You ought to trust his detective instinct.’

  Jock gestured to an old paperback of The Big Sleep nestling up to his visual display unit. ‘See that? One of my favourite shamuses. I always fancied being a private investigator myself. Tell you what, why don’t you tell us your own ideas and we’ll let you have our theories?’

  ‘Sounds like foul play to me,’ said Kim. ‘Miller tried his hand at blackmail and was murdered for his pains.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ said Harry. ‘There were no signs of a disturbance in his house and the police didn’t seem to think he’d been killed by a person or persons unknown.’

  ‘I rest my case.’

  He grinned. When their paths had crossed in court, Kim Lawrence had been earnest and determined, never revealing a sense of humour or irony. The more she relaxed, the more he liked her. ‘And your prime suspect?’

  ‘How about this man Ray Brill? I don’t read many detective stories - real-life crime is enough for me - but as I understand it the man with the cast-iron alibi is invariably the one who dunnit.’

  ‘Dead right, although I can’t believe that the police didn’t check Ray out thoroughly, even though Edwin was soon in their sights. After all, the finger would usually point at the boyfriend in a case like that.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Jock. ‘Besides, surely Miller couldn’t prove anything after thirty years? It doesn’t make sense to me. Presumably there was no evidence of any kind to suggest that Edwin Smith wasn’t guilty. So - even if someone else was accused, presumably he could laugh it off.’

  Harry nodded. ‘Exactly. And yet I can’t help feeling that someone has taken Miller’s enquiries all too seriously. True, the death and the break-in might have nothing to do with Miller’s investigations. His visitor may have been the local pools collector and I may have been burgled by a teenage delinquent with time on his grubby hands. But I find it hard to believe.’

  ‘Perhaps the answer is in Cyril’s file, after all,’ said Kim.

  ‘If so, it’s escaped me.’

  ‘Shall I tell you my guess?’ asked Jock. His dark brown eyes were shining: involvement in a real mystery, even at second-hand, clearly enthralled him. ‘I reckon Miller was rattled by his visitor. A man who had killed Carole Jeffries might be ready to kill again. Perhaps he feared for his own safety and thought the best course was to say that the crucial information was in your hands, not his. Then with all the excitement he had an asthma attack and died. A genuine accident. The man stole Miller’s own file but Cyril’s was a red herring - yet he swallowed Miller’s story and couldn’t resist searching through your office for it even though he knew he would never be proved guilty of murdering either Carole or Miller.’

  ‘Plausible,’ said Harry, ‘except for one thing. The burglary occurred before the unknown visitor knocked on Miller’s door. Back to the drawing board, Marlowe.’

  Jock sighed. ‘I agree it’s a fascinating case. Imagine all the skeletons that have safely been locked in their cupboards for the past thirty years.’ He gestured at the file-laden shelves all around. ‘And look at all this stuff. There must be so many secrets locked away down here, stories from long ago of crime and romance and greed. Yet I never get to know about any of them. It’s a tantalising thought. So do keep me posted with your investigations. I’d love to have the chance to pit my wits.’

  ‘I think I’m getting bitten by the detective bug as well,’ said Kim. ‘What’s your next move?’

  ‘First things first,’ said Harry. ‘I still have no proof of Edwin Smith’s innocence. I need to trace Renata Grierson and find out exactly why she told
Miller that her boyfriend was no murderer.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  she was always so provocative.

  An hour later he was sitting at a corner table in the Ensenada opposite Jim Crusoe, who was raising a glass of Moët and wishing that every week brought a new Waltergate.

  ‘Here’s to justice,’ said Jim. ‘Long may it miscarry.’

  ‘As long as the fees are good?’ asked Harry mischievously.

  ‘A man’s got to eat,’ said his partner, eyeing his steak with enthusiasm. ‘Besides, I know our social conscience is safe in your care. I suppose this Sefton Park case is going to be another of your pro bono publico enquiries, is it?’

  On the way to the restaurant, Harry had regaled him with an account of his conversations with Miller and what he knew of the Carole Jeffries case. ‘I’m thinking as much of Edwin Smith’s mum as of my own curiosity. She paid Cyril handsomely for poor reward. If her son now turns out to have been innocent all along, he deserves to have his name cleared.’

  ‘Are you thinking of a posthumous pardon?’

  Harry spread his arms, and almost sent a passing waiter flying. ‘Why not? The poor idiot has spent thirty years being considered guilty of a crime he may not have committed - assuming that this Renata woman wasn’t pulling the wool over Miller’s eyes when she assured him Edwin couldn’t have been guilty. I wish I knew how to get in touch with her. Perhaps the best idea is to follow Miller’s example and advertise.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’

  ‘Do you have a better suggestion?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I do.’ Jim reached down for the briefcase he had brought along from the office. ‘If only you’d let me get a word in edgeways earlier, I might have put you out of your misery. Look at this.’

  He took out the red file Miller had handed Harry about his personal affairs and drew from it a single sheet of paper. ‘I take it you didn’t study the documents our client passed to you?’

  ‘I glanced at the summary, but I didn’t trouble with the rest of the paperwork. It’s more your line of country than mine.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Jim passed him the sheet. ‘When I was working on the will, I couldn’t make head nor tail of this stuff. None of it had any bearing on Miller’s instructions about his estate. But I think you may find it useful.’