The Devil in Disguise

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Seymour’s verdict was like his surname,’ Harry said wryly that afternoon. ‘Neither one thing nor the other.’

  Jim grinned. ‘Ah well. Not every mystery has a solution. Though I think I can guess why you’re wearing your smartest suit today. And is that tie made of real silk?’

  ‘It was a Christmas present,’ Harry said defensively. ‘I simply never got round to unwrapping it until now.’

  ‘You’re turning into a bit of a Beau Brummel. I never thought I’d see the day.’ The phone buzzed. ‘Yes, Suzanne? Fine, I’ll tell Harry she’s arrived.’

  He turned to Harry and winked. ‘She’s all yours.’

  Within a couple of minutes of the start of their meeting, Harry had decided that even the photograph in the brochure had not done Juliet May justice. He put her age somewhere in the late thirties and she had laughter lines around the eyes and the corners of her mouth, but that simply added to her appeal. Her perfume was discreet and, he guessed, very expensive. She was dressed simply in jacket, blouse and skirt but years of marriage to a woman who believed money was made to be spent had taught him a little about the cost of haute couture. He guessed that Juliet May spent as much in a week on clothes as Liz might have managed in a year. She didn’t bother with jewellery except for a gold band on the third finger of her left hand. Mr May, he reflected, was a lucky fellow.

  Suddenly he became aware that she had asked him a question. ‘Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.’

  She smiled. ‘I hope I’m not boring you.’

  ‘Oh no. Certainly not.’

  ‘But I had the impression your mind was wandering.’ Her tone was playful. No question: she was teasing him. ‘I simply asked who you regarded as your key target clients.’

  Harry pondered. ‘Adulterous burglars who get injured at work, I suppose. Provided they qualify for legal aid.’

  She laughed. ‘At least you’re honest.’

  ‘I realise it’s a disadvantage when it comes to marketing legal services. Or anything else, come to that.’

  She pretended to wince. ‘Your partner did warn me that you wouldn’t be easily convinced of the benefits of engaging a consultant. So I didn’t come here expecting an easy ride. But don’t you think it’s worth making more of an effort to sell your problem-solving skills?’

  ‘Problem solving? I have enough trouble with the quick crossword in the morning paper.’

  ‘That’s not what I hear. You have quite a reputation for searching out the truth.’

  ‘Believe me, most of my clients would regard that as a supreme disadvantage in any solicitor.’

  ‘You don’t do yourself justice,’ she urged.

  He gave her a sad smile. ‘One thing I’ve learned in the law is this. Justice isn’t as easily come by as most of us would like to believe.’

  ‘You’ve unravelled one or two mysteries,’ she persisted. ‘And when it comes to achieving justice, I know that you’ve put right at least one notable miscarriage. The Edwin Smith case - the so-called Sefton Park Strangling.’

  He was genuinely startled. ‘How do you know about that? I once promised someone - closely involved - that I wouldn’t spread the truth around, go shouting my mouth off from the rooftops.’

  ‘I do my homework, Harry. I always advise my clients to research their potential targets and I practise what I preach. But what you say is right. You never seem to court publicity. Perhaps you ought to try it for a change.’

  ‘I didn’t get involved with the Sefton Park murder in order to get my name in the paper,’ he said sharply.

  ‘I appreciate that. And of course your attitude does you credit, I’m not seeking to persuade you otherwise. I’m simply saying that you obviously have skills that are marketable, perhaps in very different circumstances.’

  He grunted. ‘Cases like that don’t crop up every day. Most of the people I act for are as guilty as Crippen.’

  ‘Who says Crippen was guilty?’ she asked, her eyes shining. ‘My theory is that he was innocent. Where was the proof that the bones they found in Hilldrop Crescent were his wife’s? She could have zipped off to America with a lover. The pathologist made too many assumptions, he was desperate to make a name for himself. If Crippen hadn’t fled with Ethel Le Neve, the police might never have made the charge stick.’

  He gaped at her. ‘Don’t tell me you’re a true crime buff?’

  ‘All mysteries fascinate me,’ she said simply. ‘In real life or in fiction. When I asked around about Crusoe and Devlin, I was intrigued by what I heard. It seems you’re a man after my own heart. So when your partner offered me the chance of this meeting with you, I jumped at it.’

  ‘I suppose I should be flattered.’

  She smiled at him. ‘I suppose you should.’

  After she had departed, Jim wandered into his room and said, ‘Well?’

  ‘She was quite plausible,’ Harry said carefully.

  ‘She was in here for an hour and a half, for God’s sake.’ Jim grinned. ‘I was beginning to wonder what the two of you were getting up to in here with the door closed. Just as well you were talking business. You do realise who she’s married to, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Casper May.’

  Shit, Harry said to himself. And then - How could she? He’d had a narrow escape. For a few minutes he’d toyed

  with the idea of inviting Juliet out for a drink one evening.

  He wasn’t being disloyal to Kim; he had no intention of propositioning a married woman. He would simply have liked to spend more time with someone he found appealing. Just as well he had resisted temptation. If Casper May got the wrong idea about you, you were dead meat.

  Chapter 7

  Harry hated funerals. He would never forget the first that he had attended, after the death of his parents whilst he was in his early teens. It had been a typical Liverpool day, cloudy and with spits of rain, the kind of day he had seen a thousand times before and even more often since. And yet it had been a day when a sick and empty feeling in his guts told him that life had changed for ever. Until then, like any boy, he’d believed that bad things happened to other people. Suddenly he knew better and nothing would be the same again.

  Yet now he was attending his second funeral inside a month. Harry sat at the back of the church, sharing a pew with a couple of Americans, the manager of the Hawthorne and a tall young man who was evidently a colleague. He had attended the service for Charles Kavanaugh out of a sense of duty; this time, he was driven by a nagging sense of unfinished business. He needed to understand what had happened to Luke. That mattered to him: he’d lost his mother, father and wife for no good reason. He had to keep believing that life was not always so cruel, or so meaningless.

  But the service offered little reassurance. There were no clues, no credible explanations. Much was said, by the vicar, by Frances Silverwood and by Ashley Whitaker about Luke’s good works and his sense of duty to others. The hymns were sensitively chosen. For all that, the one word in everyone’s mind was never spoken. Why?

  He reflected that one of the terrible things about suicide was that it imbued everyone who had known the deceased with a desolate sense of failure. It was a feeling that was unavoidable, yet infinitely depressing: we knew each other, we were friends, yet that wasn’t enough to make him want to keep living.

  When the service was over, he joined Matthew Cullinan, Roy Milburn and Tim Aldred outside. The grey of the sky matched the trustees’ mood; even Roy was subdued and from his grimace Harry guessed that his damaged leg must be hurting. They were waiting to say a few words of comfort to Frances when she emerged from the church and filling their time with the inevitable topic of conversation.

  ‘Of course it’s a tragic loss,’ Matthew was saying. He was wearing a three-piece suit and had his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat. ‘I hav
e to say that, with hindsight, one or two things do become clear.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Tim asked.

  ‘Well, he was a born worrier. The way he used to fuss over the vetting of grant applications. Attention to detail is all very well, but it can get out of hand.’

  Roy stretched his arms and Harry noticed a gold watch glinting from his wrist. ‘Let’s face it. The Dinosaur was always a bit of an old woman.’

  Tim said angrily, ‘You’d never have dared say that whilst he was alive.’

  ‘I freely admit it. He liked to have his own way. He always had to be right. But I suppose even he had his Achilles’ heel, or we wouldn’t be here today.’

  ‘So you believe he killed himself?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Don’t you? The idea of an accident is just too far-fetched.’

  ‘I agree,’ Matthew said. ‘The coroner wanted to spare people’s feelings, that’s all very commendable. But between ourselves, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Luke did away with himself.’

  ‘I couldn’t take it in when I first heard,’ Tim said. ‘Luke, of all people. He’s the last person I would have expected to...’

  ‘I’ve heard that said a good many times today,’ a new voice said. It belonged to Ashley Whitaker. He was accompanied by his wife, a pale blonde with downcast eyes.

  ‘I heard that Luke tried to telephone you on - the last night,’ Tim said after condolences had been expressed.

  Ashley blinked at the pebbles on the path, still glistening after overnight rain. ‘Yes. I keep wondering what he wanted to say.’

  Frances Silverwood joined them as he spoke. Under her overcoat, her shoulders were stooped and Harry sensed she had been struggling to hold back tears.

  ‘I hope you’re not torturing yourself, Ashley,’ she said quietly. ‘It must be tempting to take some of the responsibility on yourself, to imagine that if only you’d taken the call, things might have been different.’

  ‘You’ve read his mind,’ Melissa Whitaker murmured. A slender woman with high cheekbones, she had the sort of blue eyes that people wrote poems about. Harry knew that Ashley idolised her and he could understand why. Yet she was so quiet that it was surprisingly easy to overlook her. If Harry hadn’t been watching her closely, he wouldn’t have noticed her give her husband’s hand a comforting squeeze as she spoke.

  ‘It’s human nature,’ Frances said. ‘You were always close to him, Ashley. It’s significant that after he dialled your number and couldn’t get through, he didn’t try to call any of the rest of us.’ She paused and Harry guessed that in her mind she was adding the words: not even me. ‘But I’m sure there was nothing you could have done.’

  ‘I’ve already told him that,’ Melissa said. ‘But he’s been brooding ever since we heard the news.’

  ‘Don’t,’ Frances said to him. ‘God knows, if there is any blame, we should all take a share of it. Luke knew a great many people, but he was a lonely man. He never got over Gwendoline’s death. I have this feeling that his death was a long time coming. He’ll have thought it through in his rational way. My guess is that he was calling you simply to say goodbye.’

  Ashley grunted and Harry said, ‘In that case, surely it’s odd that he didn’t write to Ashley. Or anyone else, come to that.’

  ‘Plenty of suicides don’t leave a note,’ Tim said.

  ‘Are you an expert on the subject?’ Roy asked.

  The question seemed to shock Tim. He coloured and mumbled something unintelligible. There was a short uncomfortable silence. Harry found himself shivering and was not sure that the biting wind was entirely to blame. Finally Frances said, ‘Have we heard any more from Vera’s solicitors?’

  ‘Not yet. I haven’t yet revealed what we know about her false references. Meanwhile, I’m waiting for further revelations from our private investigator.’

  ‘Let me know when there’s news,’ Frances said briskly. ‘And now, everyone, if you’ll excuse me, I must be going. It’s been quite a draining day.’

  As Matthew followed her down the path towards the lych gate, Ashley sighed and said, ‘Good to see you again, Harry. I’m only sorry about the circumstances. As a matter of fact, I wondered if it would be possible for us to have a quiet word later? Do you have anything on this evening?’

  ‘Nothing special.’ Kim was duty solicitor tonight. He had seen her only briefly at court since the Legal Group’s AGM. Anything was better than a television dinner and an evening alone spent watching unfunny sitcoms.

  ‘Let me run Melissa home, then I’ll come back to the shop. I’ve bought some new stock you might be interested in looking at.’

  After the Whitakers had said their goodbyes and headed off towards the car park, Roy Milburn stared after them and said out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Gorgeous, isn’t she?’

  ‘You fancy Melissa?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Why so surprised? She’s rich and she looks as good as when I first knew her. Only trouble is, she’s always been as neurotic as hell.’

  ‘I’ve never noticed.’

  ‘Look at her fingernails some time. She wears false ones because she chews them down to the quick. Believe me, she’s a nervy one. Not someone to mess around with.’

  Harry did not regard bitten fingernails as evidence of an unstable personality, but he let it pass. ‘You’ve known her a long time, then?’

  ‘We were all students together. Her daddy owned Grayson’s Brewery. The ideal father-in-law, wouldn’t you say? Ashley was the lucky one she fell for. He had this little-boy-lost manner that came over a treat.’

  Tim had been shifting impatiently from foot to foot and Roy’s mocking tone seemed to provoke him into saying abruptly, ‘By the way, Roy, when does your case come up?’

  Roy’s smile faded. ‘Next week, isn’t that right, Harry?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Roy had been charged with drink-driving after the crash in which he’d been injured and had asked Crusoe and Devlin to take the case. At a cut price, he’d added, given the business they had from the Kavanaugh Trust.

  ‘Will you lose your licence?’ The note of schadenfreude in Tim’s voice was unmistakable.

  Recovering his usual cockiness, Roy put a hand on Harry’s shoulder and said, ‘Far from it. With Loophole Devlin on my side, I’m expecting a public apology and handsome compensation.’

  ‘In that case,’ Harry said, ‘you need a magician rather than a solicitor. Have you thought about engaging Tim’s services? He’s the expert at pulling rabbits out of hats.’

  Roy laughed. ‘So how’s it going, Tim? Still entertaining Merseyside’s infants and geriatrics?’

  ‘It’s all work,’ Tim said. ‘And I need the money. Though I do have something different on next week. I’ve been hired by Jericho Lane Labour Club to perform at a fund-raising event for charity. Come along if you like, you two. And bring a friend.’

  Roy chuckled so derisively that Tim reddened with anger.

  ‘I’d love to come,’ Harry said hastily. ‘Though I’ll be amazed if you’re able to teach Liverpool politicians any new tricks.’

  ‘Politicians? They’re almost as bad as lawyers.’ Roy paused. ‘Which reminds me. Why don’t lawyers go to the beach?’

  Harry’s heart began to sink. ‘Break it to me gently.’

  ‘Because cats keep trying to bury them.’

  And Roy shattered the quiet of the graveyard with a belly laugh.

  ***

  As he drove back to the city centre, Harry reflected that until now he had not appreciated how adroitly Luke had maintained peace within the Kavanaugh Trust. He had done it partly through force of character, partly through refined chairmanship skills. Every meeting had been meticulously prepared, with little scope for deviating from the agenda. In any group of people, there was potential for acrimony; the more so, perhaps, with those who m
ight fancy that they had an artistic temperament. But in the past Harry had witnessed little backbiting; with Luke gone, people were daring to antagonise each other.

  The prospect of a visit to the Speckled Band Bookshop cheered him up. He spent more time and money there than he should have done. It was a pastime rather than a business; Ashley was as happy to spend half an hour chatting with a fellow devotee about the novels of Agatha Christie or Dorothy L. Sayers as he was to sell any of his stock.

  The shop was a stone’s throw from the Bluecoat Centre. It occupied an old building that might have been elegant in Britain’s imperial heyday but now bore the stains of centuries of unclean air. Harry glanced upwards as he approached and saw a trio of sooty gargoyles glaring down from the rooftop, as if they held him personally responsible for failing to sandblast them back to their original state. The sign on the door said Closed, but when Harry knocked, Ashley answered and let him in.

  Ashley could have afforded the swishest interior design that money could buy, but Harry was glad he had resisted temptation. The Speckled Band was a dusty, rambling cavern with floor-to-ceiling shelves and creaking wooden floorboards, a world away from the sterile High Street chain stores that only stocked bestsellers, and all the better for that. Towards the back of the ground floor, an open log fire crackled. Never mind what the safety people might say, who knew what treasures might be found lurking in a place like this?

  ‘Take a look in the boxes on the floor,’ Ashley said, indicating a couple of huge cardboard containers. ‘Stuff we brought back from Toronto. I’ve not marked prices, but if you see anything you fancy, just let me know. I’ll make us a coffee in the meantime.’

  The smell of old books was everywhere and Harry knew few sweeter perfumes. He dived into the boxes and spent a few happy minutes flicking through battered rarities. Murder stories where bodies were found in hermetically sealed chambers surrounded by snow that bore not a single footmark; crimes investigated by a blind detective with a super-sensitive auditory nerve; and one little gem he remembered borrowing from the library as a boy in which, it was true, the butler really did it.