Yesterday's Papers

by Martin Edwards

  ‘And Mrs Smith, what of her?’

  ‘I acted wrongly, I do not deny it. But we all have our weaknesses, Mr Devlin. Guy was mine.’

  ‘So you stayed with him and kept your promise?’

  ‘You sound horrified, but I felt I had no choice. Guy was like a lost soul for those last fifteen years. He could never bring himself to tell the psychiatrists the truth and in the end they all gave up on him. We broke off with our friends in the Party. Guy did a little writing as well as assignments for the University, but all the passion was spent. There had been talk of a Chair, but of course that came to nothing. Clive tried to stay in touch, he was hurt and bewildered when we rebuffed his approaches. But that was inevitable. He had been the unwitting catalyst for our family tragedy.’

  ‘And Guy’s suicide?’

  ‘It was not his first attempt, far from it. There had been other incidents with whisky and sleeping pills, but I had managed to hush them up. I’m afraid I’ve been rather too good at hushing things up, Mr Devlin. Frankly, when the end came, it was a merciful release. Everyone felt sorry for me, but no-one knew the burden I had had to bear since Carole’s murder.’ She gave Harry a wry smile. ‘Do you know, I think there may be a grain of truth in that old cliché about a trouble shared. For so long I have been bowed down by my own sense of complicity in the crime. I would never have believed it, but I am glad you’ve been willing to listen to me. May I ask, now that you know the worst, what you intend to do with your knowledge?’

  Harry thought for a minute or two before he spoke. The Labrador stirred and considered him with questioning eyes while Kathleen studied her short unvarnished fingernails. ‘What can I do? Ernest Miller, the man who first urged me to believe that Edwin Smith did not kill your daughter, is dead. I’ve turned up several stones during the last few days and I haven’t always liked what I’ve found underneath them. I can’t see how anyone would gain if I were to broadcast what I have learned. Don’t misunderstand me: I can’t guarantee that the truth will never come out. Plenty of people are aware of the enquiries I’ve been making and someone may be able to put two and two together themselves. But I don’t see why I should encourage them to do so.’

  Kathleen turned her gaze on him and he saw a flicker of hope in her pale grey eyes. ‘So you are willing to let sleeping dogs lie?’

  ‘What matters most of all to me,’ he said, ‘is that at last Vera Smith can rest in peace.’

  So that’s that, he thought, as he unlocked the MG. Guy killed Carole and, although he escaped the law’s net, he was tortured by remorse until the day of his death. A perverse kind of justice had in the end been done. Ernest Miller’s speculation had been spot on: had that strange old man not set the enquiry in motion, Kathleen Jeffries might have gone to her own grave bowed down by the weight of her unshared secret. It was too late for her to rebuild her life, but at least she too might now have the chance to find a sort of peace.

  A thin layer of snow lay on the pavements and his tyres threw up spray as he pulled away from the trim block of flats. Only two questions were left in his mind, yet Harry knew they would nag at him if he did not seek out the answers. First, who was Ernest Miller’s last visitor? Of course, he could now imagine no sinister motive for that unusual house call: Miller surely could have had no idea that Guy was Carole’s murderer and even if he had guessed, no-one had a motive to stop him broadcasting it to the world. Maybe it was simply an unimportant coincidence, like the break-in at Fenwick Court. The second question was something and nothing, really, but he wanted to put it to Ray Brill. Since he was in the neighbourhood, why not call? He decided to see if Ray was at home: he did not relish another trawl of the resort’s amusement arcades.

  As he turned into the street where Ray lived, he found himself swerving to avoid a group of passers-by who had strayed from the pavement. He didn’t have time to swear at them: he was distracted by the scene that had captured their attention. A police van with flashing blue lights was parked fifty yards away and the narrow road had been cordoned off. He slammed down on the brake and came to a halt just short of the barrier. A uniformed constable approached and he wound down the window. He could hear walkie-talkies crackling, could see the sombre expression on the constable’s face.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘There’s been an incident overnight, sir, I can’t say more than that. Now if you’d be good enough to turn around, you can find your way to Lord Street down the next road.’

  But Harry wasn’t moving. The van stood outside the house he had called at before. The front of the building was blackened and all the windows had caved in. As he absorbed the implications of the scene, he groaned.

  ‘So there’s been a fire? What about Ray Brill - has anything happened to him?’

  The constable leaned forward and spoke in an urgent tone. ‘You knew the gentleman, sir?’

  His use of the past tense struck Harry like a physical blow - as did the sudden realisation that if Ray was dead, perhaps he had not yet solved the puzzle posed by Ernest Miller after all.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  For the record

  Within an hour he knew as much about Ray Brill’s death as the police - but that was very little. His stroke of fortune had been to catch sight of a familiar figure coming out of the police van. He was a sergeant, universally known as Wedding Cake because he had been married three times, and he was not only a neighbour of Jim Crusoe but also one of Harry’s most dependable divorce clients. Wedding Cake blamed the stress of the job for his matrimonial disasters, but everyone else put it down to chronic lust.

  According to Wedding Cake, the alarm had been raised at eleven the previous evening. The fat man whom Harry had met on his first visit here had arrived home from the pub to be confronted with the acrid smell of smoke the moment he walked down the path to the door. The fire brigade had arrived within minutes, but by then the blaze had already taken hold. They had broken into the building to find the burnt remains of Ray Brill sprawled across the floor of his bedroom.

  ‘Overcome by the fumes?’ asked Harry.

  ‘We’ll have to await the post mortem to be sure,’ said Wedding Cake primly.

  ‘Come on. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be funding the Child Support Agency single-handed.’

  ‘All right, but this is strictly off the record, mind. All the indications are that it’s a put-up job and a pretty amateurish one. We reckon someone slugged Brill, then torched the place to cover his tracks, trying to make it look as though a carelessly tossed away cigarette butt was the cause of it all.’

  ‘Any leads?’

  ‘Nothing yet, but it’s early days. We’re going over the place with a fine toothcomb and my bet is that we’ll find some useful forensic before we’re finished. Having said that, right now, you’re probably our prime suspect.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Wedding Cake smirked. ‘We have to look at every possibility. You say you wanted to talk to Brill, but I still don’t know why. I appreciate you may have been a fan, but shouldn’t you be at work?’

  ‘Jim would certainly say so and no, I’m far too young to have been a fan of the Brill Brothers. As for my interest in Ray, it’s a long story.’

  ‘I’ve got plenty of time to listen.’

  As Harry gave an edited account of his enquiries into the Sefton Park Strangling, Wedding Cake’s eyebrows rose and when he finally paused for breath, the policeman did not disguise his amazement.

  ‘No wonder you’re so slow at replying to telephone calls. You’re constantly running round poking your nose into murder mysteries.’

  ‘I suppose someone’s got to do it.’

  ‘Ha-bloody-ha. Now listen, do you think there is any connection between the waves you’ve been making and the murder of Ray Brill?’

  Harry spread his arms. ‘Who knows? One minute I think the case is all over,
the next it opens up again.’

  ‘Exactly why did you want to talk to Brill? Simply to let him know who had killed his girlfriend of thirty years ago?’

  ‘No, there was more to it than that. When we spoke, I felt he was holding back on me. I still believe that he was. Yet I can’t understand what he had to hide.’

  ‘Clear as mud, the whole thing. Anyway, you can leave this one to us now.’

  ‘If you say so,’ agreed Harry in his meekest manner.

  Wedding Cake gave him a haughty look. ‘And if you do happen to make any inspired deductions, let me know straight away. I don’t want to find your corpse stretched out across the floor of your office. At least, not yet. I need to talk to you about the alimony for Sharon. I’ve met this lovely girl, you see, and...’

  ‘Listen, I’ll promise to tell you my hunches if you agree to have a word with me before you next propose, okay?’

  ‘Romance is dead,’ said Wedding Cake gloomily.

  ‘No, but it’s bloody expensive.’

  All the way back to Liverpool, the question of why Ray Brill had been killed gnawed at him and by the time he was parking his car at the snow-carpeted Fenwick Court, an explanation was beginning to take shape in his mind. He felt sure he had learned enough over the past few days to fathom the mystery, but one last leap of imagination still needed to be made. Unsure what to do next, he was coming back to the office with the best of intentions; at the very least he knew he ought to check his post and messages. But when he saw Leo Devaney emerging from the basement record shop, umbrella in hand, he sensed fate was about to intervene.

  ‘God, what weather! I’m on my way back to the record fair, I mentioned it to you, remember? Have you time to look in?’

  ‘I should be getting back to my desk,’ said Harry, ‘but...’

  ‘All work and no play? Why not come over with me? Surely you can spare half an hour. Besides, you might pick up one or two rarities. There’s some good stuff on the stands. Specially mine. Come on, you can share my brolly.’

  ‘I might scout round,’ Harry said thoughtfully, ‘see if I can find anything by the Brill Brothers.’

  ‘I’ve still not picked up anything of theirs lately, but I did see one of their albums this morning. It’s in lousy condition, mind you. It crossed my mind that I might buy it for you later in the day, when things got a little less hectic and the prices a little cheaper. But if you turn up now, you can have a look for yourself and cut out my mark-up.’

  ‘You’ll never make a businessman,’ Harry said as they turned out of the courtyard and headed in the direction of Dale Street. ‘But perhaps if you don’t know already, I can give you a good tip. If you do come across any Brill Brothers material this afternoon, it might be worth investing a few quid. I have a feeling their work is going to become much sought-after in the very near future.’

  ‘Can’t see it myself. What makes you think that?’

  ‘Ray Brill died last night.’

  Leo stopped in his tracks. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘As serious as any death is ever likely to be.’

  ‘I can’t believe it! Jesus, he is - was - my age! What was it, heart attack?’

  Blinking snowflakes out of his eyes, Harry shook his head. ‘The police reckon he was murdered.’

  ‘You’re kidding! He was hardly in John Lennon’s league!’

  ‘I don’t think a loony fan was to blame. Someone called on him last night, hit him over the head and set fire to his flat in an attempted cover-up.’

  Leo was bewildered. ‘It’s incredible! Who would want to do anything like that?’

  ‘Any number of people, judging by what you told me last week. Spurned lovers, cuckolded husbands, irate fathers. He didn’t go out of his way to make himself popular.’

  ‘True enough, I suppose - but how did you bump into him?’

  ‘I tracked him down to Southport. When I spoke to him, he was pouring cash into a slot machine. You could safely say he was on the downward slope.’

  Leo thought about it. ‘As soon as this news gets out, Brill Brothers records will become eminently collectable. You wait, all the old has-beens from the Cavern era will be wheeled out to sing Ray’s praises and some bright spark will re-release “Please Stay” as a tribute.’

  ‘I can see it climbing to the top of the charts.’

  ‘Every chance.’ Leo shook his head, still trying to absorb the news. Finally he cleared his throat and said, ‘What exactly was your interest in Ray?’

  ‘I thought he could tell me something about the killing of a girl he’d once known, but I was on entirely the wrong track.’

  Leo looked mystified but said nothing more as they crossed the road and walked under an archway between two old buildings. The alleyway broadened into a courtyard. At the far end was a door next to which stood a sign proclaiming RECORD FAIR TODAY. Leo nodded to the ageing hippy on the door, who waved them through with careless geniality.

  ‘I’d have been glad to pay,’ said Harry.

  ‘No problem. I’m grateful for the tip-off about Ray. Just don’t tell anyone else until I’ve scoured the place for his stuff, okay?’

  ‘Where was the album you saw?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Hang on a moment while I have a word with Simon, then I’ll take you there.’

  Leo led the way down one of the aisles between the rows of tables on which stood box after box of records, tapes, compact discs and memorabilia. One customer was haggling noisily over the price of a Manfred Mann album and two men in their forties were recalling the merits of Northern Soul with the nostalgic exaggeration of old buffers harping on about the Dunkirk Spirit. From a pair of speakers on one stall Harry heard Mick Jagger demanding who wanted yesterday’s papers, who read yesterday’s news. In one corner, a bespectacled youth was studying an original Cavern Club poster for a Beatles gig as if it were a Rembrandt, while across the way, a muscular stallholder had clamped in a vice-like grip the wrist of a spotty shoplifter whose twitchy demeanour suggested that he existed on prohibited substances rather than square meals. Towards the back of the room Leo paused in front of a banner marked DEVANEY RECORDS. Sitting underneath it was his friend Simon, a pretty young boy with a neatly trimmed moustache who was clad in a white vest and denim jeans.

  ‘How’s business, love?’

  ‘A bit slack in the last half hour. Hi, Harry, how’s life in the legal profession?’

  ‘Jim would say I ought to be back in the office right now, finding out.’

  ‘He’s such a spoilsport,’ said Leo. ‘Listen, love, have you heard anyone mention the name of Ray Brill while I’ve been out?’

  Simon shook his long brown locks. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Tell you later. Hang on for another five minutes, will you, while I show Harry something?’

  Simon smiled indulgently and blew Leo a kiss.

  ‘I think the Brill Brothers album was on this side of the room,’ said Leo as they moved away. ‘I still can’t believe that Ray has been killed. Extraordinary, isn’t it, how often death strikes the people of pop? For goodness’ sake, even the Singing Nun finished up in a lesbian suicide pact. Did you know she and her lover were both found clutching a cross in their hands?’ He took in the expression on Harry’s face and said, ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, yes ... it’s just that something you’ve said has struck a chord.’

  Leo stared at him, conscious that something momentous had happened, but wholly unable to grasp what it might be. ‘Come on, you’ve piqued my curiosity. What did you mean when you said that your questioning of Ray was on the wrong track?’

  Harry rubbed his chin and pondered for a moment. All at once, his ideas were slotting into place like oranges on one of Ray Brill’s favourite fruit machines. ‘As you said, it’s strange how often death strikes people in the pop busines
s,’ he said slowly. ‘I think perhaps I should have been asking Ray about the murder of his manager, rather than his girlfriend.’

  ‘Warren Hull? What on earth makes you say that?’

  ‘I’m beginning to wonder,’ said Harry, whether Warren Hull’s death all those years ago might have been the reason why Ray was murdered last night.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I do not regret the murder at all

  Leo did not attempt to hide his bewilderment. ‘Didn’t I explain that to you? It was a gay killing, something the police weren’t able to solve. I’ve always reckoned the culprit was a rent boy who turned nasty when Warren made excessive demands.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Harry, ‘maybe not.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Old sins cast long shadows.’ Harry thought briefly about Kevin Walter before he continued. ‘I’ve spent the last week or so trying to discover the explanation for one crime from the Swinging Sixties, but now I think I should have devoted more attention to another.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Tell me about Warren Hull. I take it most people knew at the time that he was gay?’

  ‘Oh yes, he flaunted it.’

  Something in Leo’s tone made Harry ask. ‘Did you know him, by any chance?’

  Leo flushed. ‘As a matter of fact, I did. As you know, I’ve always been crazy about pop, and in the early sixties I was in my teens and Liverpool was the perfect place to be. I would hang around places like the Cavern and the shops run by people like Brian Epstein and Benny Frederick and...’