Yesterday's Papers

by Martin Edwards

  ‘And did Carole talk about her relationship with Ray?’

  ‘She did her best to make me think life with him was no bed of roses. He was sex mad, though she wasn’t exactly prim and proper herself. But soon she was saying he certainly wasn’t the love of her life. I wondered if she was trying to make me feel better about it all, but I guess the great romance was cooling off. If she hadn’t been murdered, I doubt they would have stayed together much longer.’

  ‘What about the day she died? She came to see you in the shop, didn’t she?’

  She closed her eyes. ‘Yes, it was the last time I saw her. Ray came in and the two of them had a blazing row, then he headed off to London with Ian. She’d worked herself up into a state but then she had a private chat with Benny and that seemed to calm her down.’

  ‘What did they talk about?’

  ‘No idea. You’d have to ask Benny, he was always good with Carole. As I say, he liked her a lot.’

  ‘And how did you feel when you heard the news about her death?’

  She bowed her head. ‘Strange. I felt strange, that’s the honest answer. Yes, I was shocked, of course, but I couldn’t help feeling other things.’

  He waited, willing to take his time while she dug deep into her memory and tried to recapture her inner thoughts of thirty years before. Finally she lifted her chin and looked him in the eye.

  ‘It sounds terrible to say, but it was the most exciting time I’d ever had. I became the centre of attention. I made out that I was heartbroken and everyone offered comfort and support.’ She paused and added, ‘The truth is, I felt she’d got her just deserts. She’d always lived dangerously and now Ray Brill had lost forever the girl he left me for.’

  Harry said nothing and after another momentary pause she bit her lip and told him, ‘I’ve never said that before to another living soul, but it’s true. She fascinated me when she was alive and after all this time she still fascinates me. She hurt me badly, but I’ve never been able to get her out of my mind. So what do you make of my true confession, Mr Harry Devlin? I suppose you think I was depraved to feel that revenge was sweet when my friend had been so brutally strangled?’

  ‘I don’t think you’d be human if you’d experienced nothing but grief.’

  She grunted and gave him a hard glance. ‘You talk as if you know about these things.’

  ‘My own wife was killed,’ he heard himself saying. ‘She’d left me two years earlier but I still loved her, I mourn her to this day. All the same, I can’t pretend I’ve forgotten the way she behaved.’

  With a nod of understanding, she said quietly, ‘I suppose I’d kept telling myself that it wouldn’t last, the relationship Carole had with Ray.’

  ‘Did you think Carole would finish with him?’

  ‘Maybe I did.’ Her dark eyes glinted. ‘After all, she was seeing another man, you know.’

  Startled, he said, ‘No, I didn’t have any idea of that.’

  ‘Oh, it had been going on for a while. Though she kept very quiet about him - like I said before, she was secretive. I had the impression he was an older man. Married, I assumed, though she never said as much.’

  ‘Could you guess who it was?’

  ‘Ah, she was too cagey to give the game away, although she liked hinting that she’d been taught as much as she’d ever need to know by this other fellow.’

  ‘Could it have been Benny?’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘You said he liked girls as well as boys - and he was fond of Carole.’

  She spread her arms. ‘If it was him, they both deserve Oscars for their acting day after day in the shop.’

  ‘Any other candidates?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘What about Clive Doxey?’

  ‘Sir Clive? What about him?’

  ‘He was a friend of Guy Jeffries, handsome and sophisticated. Any young girl might have found him attractive. And he was an up-and-coming man with a reputation to protect.’

  ‘God alone knows. In those days, I wasn’t much interested in politics or writers. Can’t say I’ve changed even now. Guy Jeffries I liked. He thought the sun shone out of Carole’s arse and he was always giving her treats. Mrs Jeffries didn’t approve at all, but she didn’t get much chance to lay down the law. But although I can remember meeting Doxey once at the Jeffries’ house, he never meant much to me. I could see he was smooth and successful, but he was over thirty. To me, he might as well have been eligible for a bus pass. I only had eyes for younger men. Like Ray.’

  ‘Do you ever see Ray Brill these days?’

  ‘God, no. The last time we spoke was a mumbled hello at Carole’s funeral. After that, the Brill Brothers started finding it harder to make the charts. Ian gave up pop music and Ray was never much use on his own. He’d lost his way and I can’t say I shed any tears for him.’

  ‘What about Benny? Do your paths ever cross?’

  ‘Now and then. I worked for him for another couple of years after Carole died, but then I got married and found a job that paid better in an advertising agency. That was where I met Bob, years later. He was a bookie in a small way of business then, but by the time he died he had this whole chain of shops and was worth the thick end of two million.’ She gave him a grim smile. ‘So maybe it all turned out for the best as far as I was concerned.’

  ‘Though not for Carole.’

  ‘No, not for Carole.’ She looked at the linoleum floor for a few seconds, then said, ‘Well, Mr Devlin, I think you’ve had more than the half hour I promised, though I can’t believe what I’ve said has been of any use.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it. I’m grateful for your time.’

  She led him back into the public area. A punter was complaining to one of the girls at the counter that he hadn’t yet been paid out on the last race.

  ‘Wait a moment, will yer?’ the girl asked. ‘The horse is still sweating! Besides, they haven’t completed the weigh-in yet.’

  Shirley Titchard turned to Harry and said, ‘No patience, you see. Just like Carole. She wanted to have everything and to have it right away. Whoever she hurt in the process.’ She folded her brawny arms again and gave him a direct look. ‘And look what it got her - her own tombstone before she was seventeen.’

  Conscience prompted him to call in at the office to see if there were any messages before his next trip. At the door of New Commodities House he bumped into Jock from the Land of the Dead. The archivist had a batch of old files under his arm and gave him an eager welcome.

  ‘Harry! Just the man! Kim Lawrence has been telling me that now it’s absolutely certain that Edwin Smith wasn’t the Sefton Park Strangler. I wondered if you had any more ideas about how to discover who really killed the girl.’

  ‘One or two, but nothing definite yet. I’m still asking myself whether the burglary here had anything to do with the case. The alarm system is sophisticated, as you well know. It certainly cost us enough. I can’t fathom why anyone would go to the lengths of disabling it and rifling through my room but then take nothing.’

  ‘Perhaps he or they were disturbed.’

  ‘Who by? No, I can’t help believing the burglar was after the old Tweats file, mistakenly thinking it contained incriminating evidence. I hope no-one’s disturbed you down in the Land of the Dead?’

  Jock put a hand on his shoulder. ‘No need to worry. It’s as safe as Fort Knox.’

  ‘Even so, I still reckon Miller told Ray Brill that I’d found the file.’

  ‘You don’t believe Ray was the burglar?’

  ‘I don’t know what to believe. The likeliest explanation to me still seems to be that Ray knows much more about the death of his girlfriend than anyone realised at the time. Besides, I’ve now learned that he might have had a motive for killing her.’


  Jock’s eyebrows rose. ‘Such as?’

  ‘According to her friend Shirley, Carole had become involved with another man. She’d given Ray the old heave-ho.’

  ‘I dunno. What about Ray’s alibi? Surely the police must have checked it out at the time.’

  ‘So they claim. Come inside and I’ll fill you in on the latest.’ He led the little Scot to his room and, pushing a sheaf of telephone messages off his chair, recounted what he had learned. Jock listened carefully and, when Harry had finished, plucked at his beard for a few moments before speaking.

  ‘Suppose it was the other way round?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Suppose instead of Ray killing Carole because of jealousy, the new boyfriend murdered her because she’d become too possessive. Doesn’t that solve the problem with the alibi?’

  ‘You’re thinking of Benny Frederick?’

  Jock shook his head decisively. ‘I can’t imagine he would have fallen for her. Surely Clive Doxey is a better bet? He was an up-and-coming lawyer and politico. Carole was a child - and the child of a close friend, to make matters worse.’

  Harry thought about it. ‘No-one knows what was said between them when he called round at the house that day,’ he said slowly. ‘They might have arranged an assignation in the park.’

  ‘Exactly! And then they might have had an argument. God knows what she might have threatened to tell Guy. He might have panicked, not realised what he was doing...’

  ‘You may have something.’

  ‘The worst of it is,’ said Jock, ‘you’ll never prove whether I’m right or wrong. Not after all these years. Let’s face it, there’s no forensic evidence and a man like Doxey is hardly likely to confess. It will be so easy to say that Renata must be mistaken - or that, even if Smith is now in the clear, some passing maniac must have murdered Carole. We’ll never know for sure.’

  Again he was right, Harry thought: the theory of Doxey’s guilt was appealing, but it amounted to little more than elementary guesswork. But he could not let matters rest there - not yet awhile. ‘I reckon Miller believed he might be able to learn the truth,’ he said mulishly, ‘and don’t forget his unknown visitor. Assume for a moment it was Doxey - why would he have called for an odd old German if he felt he had nothing to hide or fear?’

  ‘That visit could be a coincidence. And in any case, it seems clear from what the police told you that Miller died of natural causes. He wasn’t silenced because he’d stumbled on the truth.’

  ‘But he might still have had the same idea as you,’ insisted Harry. ‘One thing’s for sure. I need to speak to Ray Brill, find out what he had to say when Miller came to call.’

  ‘So you’re carrying on with the investigation?’

  ‘Of course. To me, it’s more than just a game. I’ll give Ray’s number a try now to see if I can arrange a meeting.’

  He turned to the photocopy of Miller’s list which he now kept in his drawer and dialled the Southport code while Jock, tense with excitement, watched on. But the phone kept ringing out and eventually he had to admit defeat and hang up.

  ‘I’ll try again tomorrow or even go up there on the off-chance if I don’t have any joy on the phone. Kathleen Jeffries doesn’t live far away from him.’

  Jock sighed and said, ‘Killing two birds with one stone, eh?’

  ‘Something like that. But now I have an even more important call to make.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I need to tell an old lady that her son was never a murderer.’

  The home in Woolton where, according to Miller’s notes, Vera Smith lived, was a double-fronted building set behind a tall sandstone wall. As he walked up to the front door, Harry took in the neatly tended grounds and recently painted signboards which proclaimed the place as a superior residential home for the elderly, approved by all the right organisations. So the family money had lasted long enough to keep the old woman in comfortable surroundings, even if it had not been enough to achieve an acquittal from the court in the face of her son’s persistent death wish.

  Harry imagined that Edwin must always have been conscious of being a disappointment to his parents. All that money and still he’d had nothing to show for his life but a storeman’s job and a couple of minor convictions. The debacle of his attempted seduction of Renata must have snapped the last thin thread of his self-esteem. No wonder he had been sufficiently mixed up to confess to murder.

  So what would Mrs Smith make of the news?

  He pressed the bell at the entrance porch and a young dark-haired girl opened the door.

  ‘You have a resident here, a Mrs Smith.’

  ‘Do you mean Vera?’ she asked, studying him with care.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. A Mrs Vera Smith.’

  ‘Are you - are you a relative? I’m sorry, we weren’t aware of anyone apart from the people down in Shrewsbury.’ She shifted from one foot to the other and there was an embarrassed note in her voice.

  ‘No, I’m not a member of her family. But I would like to have a word with her if possible. It is important, I can promise you. My name is Devlin and I’m a solicitor.’

  The girl flushed and said, ‘You’d better come in for a moment.’

  He followed her into a large hall with walls adorned by summary landscapes. He had visited old people’s homes before and found several of them as dark and depressing as something from the pages of Sheridan Le Fanu, but this place was bright and airy. Yet the girl’s manner made him uneasy.

  A woman in a matron’s uniform approached them. ‘What is it, Lynsey?’

  ‘A Mr Devlin to see Vera, Matron,’ said the girl in a low tone, ‘He’s a solicitor.’

  The matron turned to Harry and to his astonishment clasped his hands. ‘I am sorry you have had to call here in such circumstances, Mr Devlin. I suppose you came over here as soon as you heard the news. Is it about the will?’

  ‘The will?’

  The woman paused and took in Harry’s baffled expression. ‘Oh, I am sorry. I thought Lynsey must have told you. I have some bad news, I am afraid. Vera passed away at half past two this afternoon.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  hoping that luck would be on my side.

  No more ‘if onlys’. The old resolution echoing in his head sounded hollower than ever to Harry as he drove away from Woolton. If only he had thought of Vera Smith first and called at the home in Woolton in the morning, she would at least have known the truth about her son before her death. According to matron, the old woman had complained of chest pains shortly before lunchtime and collapsed and died a few minutes later. Her heart had simply given out. There was no point in self-reproach, he knew, but he could not help it. If only he had thought first of the innocent rather than of those who might be guilty. If only.

  By way of penance, he returned to Fenwick Court and picked up a dictating machine and an armful of files that Lucy had told him were screaming for attention. Challenging stuff like a row about a second-hand car and a couple of disputes between neighbours. Once at home, he made himself a boil-in-the-bag meal and weakened to the extent of dialling Ray Brill’s home number. No answer came and he had no excuse for not devoting the rest of the night to catching up on the backlog.

  He fell into bed at one o’clock and awoke the next morning with his determination to keep looking into the Sefton Park case renewed. More than likely, Jock was right and there was no prospect of his ever being able to identify the strangler. But the least he could do for Vera Smith now was to see if it was possible to discover the man for whom her son had died in vain.

  He was at the office by eight. The news vendor round the corner was flogging the latest instalment of Jeannie Walter’s heart-warming story of her triumph over the system and again he hurried by. Jim, a tediously virtuous early riser, was already at his desk
. He seemed distracted when Harry wandered in to say hello.

  ‘Benny Frederick’s due here to talk about the marketing video this afternoon, right?’

  ‘What?’ Jim asked. ‘Oh, yes, that’s right. Four o’clock, I think we agreed.’ He paused and added, ‘And no cracks about Cinerama, please.’

  After seeing clients during the morning, Harry set off up the coast to Southport, the resort where both Kathleen Jeffries and Ray Brill lived. It was inevitably a speculative trip. He had tried phoning Ray again without success and had decided against calling the dead girl’s mother to make an appointment. Everything he had learned about her convinced him that she would be reluctant to assist a stranger to revisit the past. He had the impression of a strong but private woman: only a direct personal approach would be likely to succeed.

  Kathleen Jeffries lived in a part of the town populated mainly by the elderly affluent, a place of bridge parties and golf dinners, of immaculate lawns and Sunday-washed cars. It did not take him long to find her home in a small block of purpose-built flats set at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. He pressed the buzzer on the entryphone and a woman’s voice demanded, ‘Who is it?’ It was a stern voice, the voice of someone who thought that no news was likely to be good news.

  ‘Mrs Jeffries, my name’s Harry Devlin. I’m a solicitor from Liverpool and I would very much like to talk to you about your daughter.’

  ‘I have no daughter.’

  Immediately he was on the wrong foot. ‘I mean - your late daughter Carole.’

  After a moment’s hesitation the woman said, ‘And why should I wish to talk to you about Carole?’

  ‘Perhaps if you were willing to let me in...’

  ‘I should warn you, Mr Devlin, I have a dog. A very good guard dog who takes exception to nosey parkers.’

  Well, he’d always known it would not be easy. ‘I promise you, Mrs Jeffries, I have no wish to distress you.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said the woman before he could continue. ‘In that case you will not be offended if I say I have no wish to rake up a past that has gone beyond recall.’