The door rocked on its hinges. Jim Crusoe was standing outside, hand on hips, forearm raised to show the face of his wristwatch. Harry saw the time and gave his partner a caught-in-the-act grin. He could feel his cheeks burning. Cupping his hand over the mouthpiece, he said, ‘Sorry, I forgot. With you in half a minute.’
Jim grunted and slammed the door. Harry said into the phone, ‘I’m late for a meeting at our bank. A date with the Loan Arranger.’
A giggle. ‘Don’t tell me, he’s got a sidekick called Tonto. Does this mean you have to take out an overdraft to buy the champagne for tonight?’
It was a bitter day in November. The morning news had warned of gales and now he could hear them roaring in from the waterfront. The office heating had broken down at lunch-time and the cold was seeping into his room through cracks in the window frames. Yet his palms were damp and anticipatory lust wasn’t entirely to blame.
‘I haven’t said I can make it tonight.’
‘Don’t play hard to get,’ Juliet said. ‘You want what I want.’
Was that true? He was breathing hard, conscious of the pounding of his heart. ‘Adultery isn’t good for your health.’
‘You’re not commiting adultery. It’s years since your wife died.’
This wasn’t the time to quibble about matrimonial law or the proper interpretation of the Book of Leviticus. He didn’t want to finish up like a discredited politician, arguing that his deceits were ‘legally accurate’. ‘If Casper hears about this,’ he said, ‘we’ll both finish up in intensive care. Maybe worse.’
‘Forget him. You ought to relax. The trouble is, you’re too uptight.’
‘He’s dangerous. You’ve said so yourself.’
‘I can picture you tensing up,’ she said softly. ‘Don’t worry, we can have a nice soothing bath together.’
He couldn’t help imagining her arms as they stretched around him, her long fingers probing the cavities beneath his shoulder blades, the sharp red nails starting to dig into his back. Closing his eyes, he could smell her perfume, taste the champagne on her lips, feel the thick mass of her hair brush against his cheeks, then his chest.
‘But...’
‘No buts, Harry. Remember the Tarot reading I gave you? You’re in for a life-changing experience.’
That’s what I’m afraid of. He sucked air into his lungs. It was supposed to be an aid to rational thought.
‘Seven thirty,’ she said, filling the silence. ‘It’s less than four hours away. I can hardly wait, can you?’
Another angry knock at the door. Harry let out a breath. So much for rational thought. Well, whoever chose as an epitaph - ‘he was always sensible’?
‘No,’ he said. ‘I can’t.’
Carl Symons swallowed the last loop of spaghetti and wiped his mouth clean with his sleeve. He turned up the volume on the portable television on his kitchen table. The bellow of the wind outside was drowning out even the determined cheeriness of the weather forecaster.
‘Not a night to be out and about, with storms across the region and the likelihood of damage to property. And a word for all drivers from our motoring unit: don’t travel unless your journey is absolutely essential.’
Carl belched. The wind and rain didn’t bother him: he wasn’t going anywhere tonight. He’d left work at five sharp so as to get home before the weather worsened, the first time in months that he hadn’t worked late. Even so, it had seemed like a long day. Unsatisfactory, too. He’d emailed Suki Anwar, asking her to come to his office at four, and the bitch had sent an insolent reply, refusing on the pretext that she had an urgent case to prepare. As if that wasn’t enough, on his way to the car park, he’d caught sight of Brett Young behind the wheel of his clapped-out Sierra. For a moment he’d thought Brett was putting his foot down, trying to run him down as he was crossing Water Street. He’d had to skip through the traffic to gain the safety of the pavement on the other side. He’d felt himself flushing and he could picture Brett giving a grim smile at his alarm. Bastard. A lying bastard, too, one who had got what he deserved. Carl wasn’t sorry about what he’d done.
He laughed out loud and sang in a rumpled baritone, ‘Je ne regrette rien.’
It made him feel better. He’d forget about Suki and Brett. Better to spend a couple of hours working on his report for tomorrow’s meeting. It would assuage his conscience for that prompt departure from the office. And he did have a conscience about it. His parents were long dead, but they had inculcated in him the puritan work ethic; he prized diligence above all things. Not even his worst enemy - whoever that might be; he suspected that he was spoiled for choice - could accuse him of laziness. Later, he might relax with a film. Channel 4 was showing an old black and white movie called Nosferatu.
He wondered whether to have a Mars bar and decided against it. The lager had better stay in the fridge as well. Tomorrow he intended to wear his best suit and he’d noticed that the trousers were getting tight. He’d always nourished a deep contempt for people with pretty faces, people like Suki and Brett. Only fools judged by appearances: good looks were a mask for weakness. Yet he’d always secretly prided himself on his flat belly. He’d lost his hair young and he’d never been a Robert Redford, but at least he wasn’t overweight. Truth was, he needed to look the part at the meeting: nowadays presentation mattered in everything, including the prosecution service. So - how best to present the latest conviction rates? The figures were looking good; the trick was to make sure everyone got the message that the credit belonged to him. No-one could deny he’d justified his promotion. A Principal Crown Prosecutor owed a duty to the taxpayer. He’d told the appointment board that it was vital to be selective. No point in pursuing the ones who were sure to get away. The secret was to target cases where the evidence was cast-iron so that not even a Liverpool jury could fail to bring in a verdict of guilty.
A deafening crash outside almost knocked him off his feet. He swore loudly. A roof tile gone, by the sound of it. He’d already spent a fortune renovating this place. Trouble was, it was too exposed. He’d bought it after receiving confirmation of his promotion in the summer, intrigued by its setting on the bank of the Dee, looking across to the Welsh hills. Once upon a time, before the silting of the river had destroyed the old Dee ports forever, there had been a small anchorage here. This house had once belonged to the harbour master. Now its isolation was part of its charm to Carl; he liked his own company best. Over the years, he’d realised that he didn’t have much time for his fellow human beings. So often they whined about being used, when in truth they had asked for it. The prospect of evenings alone held no terrors for him: he was no longer his own boss during the working day, but still he preferred to do as he pleased. But if the cost of maintaining the house continued to rise, rising further in the hierarchy would no longer be merely an ambition. It would be a necessity.
He turned on the outside light and opened the door which gave on to a York stone courtyard at the side of the house. The wind stung his cheeks and blew the rain into his eyes as he stood on the threshold. Shivering, he blinked hard and finally made out the fragments of slate scattered across the paving and the grass beyond. On the other side of the low wall, the waves were lashing the shore like flails on the back of a galley slave. He had never seen the Dee so wild. A sudden gust caught the wooden door and almost snapped it off its hinges. He swore, then heaved the handle and shut out the night.
Why did I say yes?
Harry killed the engine of his MG and sat hunched over the steering wheel, staring through the rain-streaked windscreen into blackness. On his way over here, radio reports had told of the gales leaving a trail of destruction from the mountains of Snowdonia all along the north coast of Wales. A woman swept away in a swollen river, a dozen caravans tossed into the sea. Now the storm was ripping through Wirral. He couldn’t help shivering, but it had nothing to do with the elements.
He should not be here. Not so much because of guilt, more because he was sure that one day his affair with Juliet would end in tears. Perhaps worse. Casper May had betrayed his wife a hundred times, or so she reckoned. He beat her too: Harry had seen the bruises and his tears of rage had trickled over them. Casper had, it was true, come a long way since his days as loan shark, charging rates of interest that would have made Shylock’s eyes water. His security firm was due to go public soon and nowadays he saw more of government ministers than pleading debtors. The politicians were keen to build bridges with business and to wine and dine an entrepreneur famed for his charitable fund-raising: he might be persuaded to volunteer a donation to party funds. But respectability was only skin deep. If he realised he’d been cuckolded by a small-time solicitor, honour would need to be satisfied.
Harry had heard the story of a rival security boss who had undercut Casper for a contract to look after a dockside container terminal. A week after he’d gone missing, he’d been found inside one of the containers with a hood over his head and a gag in his mouth. The body was discovered on the same day that Casper was lunching with a task force from the Regional Development Agency, sharing ideas on how to make the north-west a better place to live in. He’d sent flowers to the widow, a woman he’d slept with in his younger days. The names of the scallies who had kidnapped the man and left him to die were common knowledge in the pubs of Dingle, but no-one had ever been charged. When Casper May was involved, it made sense to look the other way.
It still wasn’t too late. He could turn the MG round now and set off for home. Why not settle for beer rather than the bottle of Mouton Cadet he’d stashed in the boot, maybe watch the late vampire film on Channel 4 and admire Max Schreck’s uncanny impersonation of an inspector from the Inland Revenue? He could call Juliet tomorrow and make an excuse. Even if he said something about seeing her around, she’d guess that it was over. No great loss for her: she would soon find someone else to amuse herself with.
But as he buttoned his coat up to the neck to keep out the cold, he realised that for him it was too late after all. No longer was it a matter of choice. She was waiting for him in the lonely cottage. He could not help but seize the chance to be with her again.
Carl turned the key in the mortice lock, but there was no escape from the wind in the living-room chimney. A frantic sound, he thought, the sort a beast might make if caught in a trap. He shook his head, surprised at himself. He wasn’t given to flights of fancy. Imagination was a nuisance. It played no part in the preparation of a case for court, in the effective prosecution of criminal offenders.
He cursed as the picture on his television began to flicker and the actor’s voices in the Fiat commercial became garbled and discordant. Suddenly the programme cut off and the fluorescent overhead light went out.
Blindly, he stumbled towards the hall, cracking his knee against a cabinet as he crossed the uneven floor. He had to remember to duck his head under the low beams as he went through the doorway. Everything seemed unfamiliar in the dark. He tried the light switch next to the stairs. Nothing. A power line must have been brought down in the storm.
Shit, shit, shit.
At least he was prepared for a black-out. He prided himself on his organisational abilities and he always had supplies to enable him to cope with a crisis. Experiences like this, he told himself, proved the wisdom of such foresight. He crept back into the kitchen and found a packet of candles and a box of matches in a drawer. The flame was weak and the room was full of shadows, but anything was better than pitch darkness.
He tried the transistor radio. The Meteorological Office was issuing another warning of severe gales. Tell me something I don’t know. He retuned to Radio 3 for a bit of background Beethoven whilst he pulled the paperwork for tomorrow’s meeting out of his briefcase. Perhaps if the power didn’t come back on, he would only work for an hour or so. He’d already done the hard graft. It wouldn’t do any harm to turn in early and make sure he was fresh and ready for the meeting. If all went well, he could hope for another promotion marking at his next performance appraisal. His sights were set high. A move to another office wasn’t impossible if no vacancy cropped up in Liverpool. He wasn’t prepared to waste his life away, waiting to step into dead men’s shoes.
A knock at the front door. For an instant he confused the noise with the rage of the storm. After all, no-one in their right mind would be out on a night like this. But it came again, the sound of the heavy brass knocker hammering against oak.
It must be one of the Blackwells. Either the mother who lived at the cottage up the slope, the only person he could possibly describe as a neighbour, or her drink-sodden son if he happened to be around. Perhaps they weren’t equipped to deal with a power cut. He toyed for a moment with the idea of driving a ruthless bargain for a candle and a couple of vestas. The mother looked as if she had a decent body, considering her age. She hadn’t let herself go, he liked that in a woman. The thought made him smile as, carrying the candle in its holder, he unlocked the door.
It was freezing outside and so dark that it took him a moment to focus. Then he saw the light glinting on the blade of the axe in his visitor’s hand.
The cottage belonged to Linda Blackwell, personal assistant to Juliet in her public relations business. Harry couldn’t face the prospect of sleeping in Casper’s bed and his own flat was out of bounds because one of his neighbours was a client of Juliet’s and they couldn’t run the risk that she’d be recognised. In the past, their trysts had taken place in anonymous hotels in places like Runcorn and Frodsham, where they could be confident they wouldn’t bump into anyone they knew. Tonight was supposed to be different. Special. She had given him directions, detailed and specific, warning him that the place would be difficult to find in the dark.
‘It’s called the Customs House, but it’s only tiny and you could easily miss it. She bought it after her husband died. Once you’ve branched off the main road, ignore the signs to the country park. Carry on for half a mile past the nursery and the tumbledown cottage until you come to the end of the lane. Tucked away underneath the trees are a couple of lock-up garages. The one on the left is Linda’s. She’s let me have the key, so I’ll park my Alfa inside there. You leave your car in front of the door. For God’s sake don’t block her neighbour’s access. She can’t bear him. I don’t know why, but I can guess.’ A laugh. ‘He’s a lawyer and you know how difficult they can be.’
Harry wished now that he’d asked the neighbour’s name. The last thing he wanted was to bump into someone he knew. What could he say? ‘Can’t stop, I’m just off for a tryst with the wife of a gangster’? In theory, it might do wonders for his image - as long as Casper May never got to hear of it. He checked again to make sure that even the most pedantic conveyancer could not complain that his right of way had been obstructed and set off down the path which led into the spinney which bordered the lane.
‘For God’s sake, don’t forget to bring a torch,’ she’d instructed him. ‘There are no lights and the path twists and turns on its way through the wood.’
Good advice, he reflected, as he shone the pencil beam through the darkness. Without the help of a light, he would soon be hopelessly lost amongst the trees. Juliet obviously knew her way here of old. Had she explained this route before, to a previous lover he’d heard nothing about? If so, was it any of his business?
The path was muddy underfoot and he found himself wondering why anyone would want to live here, in the back of beyond. The city he had left behind twenty minutes earlier seemed already to belong to a different world. He could imagine that in the height of summer this wooded walk might be idyllic, but only a fool would trade the warmth of home on the wildest night of winter for the rain drenching his hair and the wind stinging his cheeks.
The gale dropped for a moment and he heard a rustling amongst the trees. He shone his torch and could dimly perceive dark shap
es above his head. What sound did bats make? He was a townie; natural history had never been a strongpoint. To think he might have been in his flat this evening, watching a vampire film on the box, rather than experiencing the Grand Guignol of a date with a murderer’s wife. If ever there was a night for the un-dead to rise, this was it.
He tripped over a tree stump but somehow managed to keep his grip upon the holdall which contained the champagne and a few overnight things. The torch slipped from his other hand and rolled away. He scrabbled around in the darkness and when he picked it up, found that the bulb was smashed. In a fit of temper, he hurled the thing away into the undergrowth before squatting on his haunches and cradling the bag with the bottle whilst he told himself to calm down. Pity it wasn’t full of whisky; he’d have brought a hip flask if he’d realised the scale of this endurance test. Perhaps Juliet had dreamed up the assignation as a challenge, a measure of the scale of his obsession with her. When he arrived at the Customs House, he’d probably find that there was a dual carriageway running straight past the front door. He inched forward and realised that the path was beginning to fall away beneath his feet.
‘When you reach the edge of the cliff, the track starts to wind down. There’s a hand-rail and you’d better cling on. It will be slippery with all this rain.’
She was a mistress of understatement, he decided. Unable to see where he was going, he clamped his left hand around the wet wooden railing and put one foot gingerly in front of another. He knew that, ahead and below, flowed the river that divided England from Wales, but he could see nothing of it. On either side of him, trees swayed like monstrous exotic dancers mocking his timidity.
‘Soon the path forks. Make sure you follow the left branch. Steps lead down to the Customs House. The other way takes you to the lawyer’s cottage.’
He missed his footing and almost fell again. These must be the steps. He told himself that he was almost there. Inching down the pathway, he saw the dark outlines of a house loom in front of him: it must be the place. Yet why were there no lights? He felt suddenly sick and wondered if, for some unknowable reason, she had betrayed him. If he walked in, would he find himself greeted by Casper May, rather than his wife?
The Devil in Disguise Page 26