Suspicious Minds (Harry Devlin)

by Edwards, Martin

  “So you think he killed her?”

  Jim Crusoe looked him in the eye. “Let’s just say I’ve seen him lose his rag a time or two and I wouldn’t like to be in his way when it happens. And I went over to Prospect House during the sale negotiations. The grounds are a jungle. You could hide half the bodies from West Kirby cemetery there.”

  “Careful, I may start thinking you’re the one who got the police to swarm over there.”

  “Not me, old son. I’d hate to be proved right and see Jack behind bars. Believe me, we need his fees.”

  They parted and Harry had done an hour’s much-needed desk work when the phone rang and Jonah Deegan spoke his name.

  “Got something? That was quick.”

  “I can still pull a few strings.” Jonah could make even a boast sound like a lament.

  “And?”

  “Name Doreen Capstick mean anything to you?”

  “Stirrup’s motherin-law.”

  “Right. She’s the one who’s agitating. Ringing the station by the hour complaining about the lack of progress in finding her daughter. She’s convinced the marriage was on the rocks and that Stirrup topped the girl rather than see her run back to mummy.”

  Even from his brief acquaintance with Alison, Harry doubted whether she would have been eager to take refuge with her loud and tiresome mother except as a last resort.

  “Anything else?”

  “It’s a genuine mystery.” Jonah didn’t give the impression of being intrigued. “No evidence to pin anything on your bloke. And no explanation of the woman’s disappearance. The betting is, she had another man on the quiet. But if so, it was very, very quiet.”

  “Thanks, Jonah. Send me your bill.”

  “I posted it five minutes ago.”

  While Harry mulled over the news, Francesca came in and left her day’s work for him to check, together with a handful of phone messages. He rifled through the papers, cringing at the ragged margins and mistakes in the correspondence, signing all the letters which were not so ineptly presented as to make re-typing essential. This week’s investment in correction fluid alone could send the firm into the red.

  Two of the telephone calls made him pause. Valerie had rung - it must be her from the return call number, though Francesca’s spelling of Kaiwar was imaginative and wildly inaccurate. sorry can’t make it tonight call tomorrow and fix something up was the message, printed out in a child-like, unformed hand. Harry swore, crumpled the piece of paper into a ball and hurled it into the litter basket.

  And Stirrup had been on as well. The message was stark. ring back asap. Such a command from a blue-chip client was not to be ignored, but Harry allowed himself a few moments of speculation before picking up the phone. Were the police pressing harder? He found himself hoping desperately that there was good news at last, that the woman had by some miracle reappeared.

  As soon as Stirrup’s voice came on to the other end of the line, Harry realised the social mood of the previous evening had evaporated.

  “I want you to do something for me and do it fast.”

  Words to make any solicitor quail. Harry said cautiously, “What’s the problem, Jack?”

  “That bitch! That bloody bitch!” The disembodied voice was choking with anger. “Capstick, I mean. Would you believe it? She’s written to Claire - Claire of all people - suggesting that I killed the kid’s step-mother.”

  Harry gazed heavenwards in despair. “I think,” he said carefully, “that I’d better take a look at that letter.”

  “You’ll do more than bloody look at it. I’ve been libelled. In a letter to my own bloody daughter, I’ve been called a murderer. The bitch, how dare she? I want you to issue a writ at once. Take her for every penny she’s got.” Stirrup took a deep breath. “I want to destroy her.”

  Chapter Six

  Acting for Stirrup in a libel action against Doreen Capstick held as much appeal for Harry as backing one pit bull terrier to savage another. True, the case would be a money-spinner for Crusoe and Devlin. But whatever Jack Stirrup and Doreen Capstick might think, the last thing they needed was to become embroiled in acrimonious litigation. Instead of spoiling for a fight with each other, they should be making common cause in the search for Alison.

  Starting an argument about it would simply cause Stirrup to become more entrenched. When he managed to get a word in, Harry opted for an oblique approach.

  “Leave it with me. Let me fix up a conference with a barrister.”

  “Why do we need to see a bloody barrister?”

  “This is a High Court case you’re talking about,” Harry explained. “Not like applying to the magistrates for a liquor licence. The professional rules don’t allow a solicitor to handle the case even if he has the specialist knowledge. Which I don’t. So if you have to use Counsel, you might as well take his advice sooner rather than later.” He thought of an argument which might appeal to a businessman suspicious of lawyers’ excuses. “Don’t give him the chance to say in twelve months’ time he would have handled the case differently if he’d been brought in on day one.”

  Grumbling, Stirrup agreed. “Where do we go from here, then?”

  “I’ll organise a conference as soon as I can. Do you want a local man or someone from London?”

  “I don’t want to hang around. Find the smartest man in the city who can see us fast.”

  As he put down the receiver, Harry wondered whom to instruct on Stirrup’s behalf. Only a handful of Liverpool barristers had a sizeable libel practice. And of them perhaps the most experienced was someone whom he felt instinctively reluctant to brief. Julian Hamer.

  Forget the pride and the prejudice, he told himself. Any work which he had sent Hamer in the past had been handled efficiently and with speed. Julian was good in conference, and that was important: Stirrup would want to satisfy himself from the outset that he had the best counsel whom money could buy. And with any luck Hamer’s advice would be to keep the case out of court. That way, both Stirrup and his foolish motherin-law might still be saved from themselves.

  Nevertheless, Harry could not help experiencing a surge of irritation when he spoke to David Base on the phone. The clerk assured him that, by good fortune, a trial of Julian’s had collapsed only a couple of hours earlier. So an urgent conference would be possible the following day. Never mind the law of libel, thought Harry, sod’s law invariably prevailed. Had he been desperate to have Hamer act, and no one else, the barrister would have been fully booked for months ahead.

  “Four o’clock?” he suggested gloomily.

  “Ideal,” said David Base, his glad-to-please tone simply rubbing salt in the wound. “I’ll mark it in the diary. You’ll have the papers sent round tomorrow morning?”

  “Will do.”

  A few minutes later came a knock at his door. Francesca appeared, bearing a slim brown envelope.

  “Just arrived. Special delivery, by motorbike courier,” she announced. The faraway look in her eyes suggested the courier had taken her fancy.

  “Re-typed those letters yet?” asked Harry. The girl was a convenient target for his ill humour.

  Her eyes widened. “You didn’t say you wanted them all done for tonight’s post.”

  He gave up. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “They’ll be ready in the morning.” She spoke tolerantly, like a mother promising an importunate child jam tomorrow.

  He managed a wan smile and opened the envelope as she left the room. The sender was Stirrup; the dashing courier had made good time in bringing the allegedly libellous letter over from Wirral.

  Six sheets of paper were covered in green ink. Doreen Capstick wrote in a flowing hand which lent itself to much use of italics and underlinings. Ostensibly, she was writing to invite Claire to spend the summer holidays with her. It was important, Doreen said, for Claire to feel that she had a bolt-hole. After her step-mother’s tragic disappearance, a young girl would scarcely be human if she did not feel a little frightened, particularly when her fat
her was such a hot-tempered individual. Doreen did not omit to mention that Alison had in the past referred to a violent streak in her husband’s personality. It would be terrible, and Doreen could never forgive herself if brave Claire were to fall victim to her father’s wrath. It was heart-breaking to lose one’s only child - for Doreen confessed she had no doubt that Alison was now dead and buried somewhere; she would never be seen again - but it would be horrific if another life were to be sacrificed as well.

  And so on. No outright accusation of murder, but an innuendo as plain as blood upon snow. Harry had little doubt that the letter was defamatory in law. What puzzled him was Doreen Capstick’s motive for writing it. There was no reason to think that she and Claire were close. After all, they only had Alison in common; Doreen doted on her and the girl disliked her. Nor was there any trace of genuine affection beneath the prolix expressions of concern. The invitation to stay was an excuse for making a string of hints about Stirrup’s guilt, hints so thinly veiled as to be indecently exposed.

  Francesca came in without knocking. “Mind signing my time sheet, Harry?”

  She thrust into his hand a pre-printed form headed the au revoir employment agency. Harry winced at the number of hours recorded for so little end result, but signed all the same.

  “Thanks. Going to the party tonight?”

  “What party?”

  Francesca raised her eyebrows in a parody of astonishment. “How could you forget? The agency’s cocktail party, of course. Don’t tell me you weren’t invited, ‘cause I saw the card on your window sill only the other day.”

  Harry glanced involuntarily at the ledge behind him. It was bare. Vaguely, he remembered chucking the invitation into the wastepaper basket. Golf days, luncheon seminars and cocktail parties… all were part and parcel of a solicitor’s life and all left him cold. As a means of drumming up business, he rated them on a par with chasing ambulances. But perhaps this shindig should be an exception to his rule of non-attendance, in view of what he had learned today. For the proprietor of the Au Revoir was Mrs. Doreen Capstick.

  “Slipped my mind for a moment. Six o’clock, isn’t it?”

  “Half-past.”

  “Will you be there?”

  Francesca made a face. “Yeah, handing out the drinks and sausages on sticks, worse luck. Doreen made me and some of the other girls on her books an offer we couldn’t refuse. A publicity gimmick, that’s what it is.” A thoughtful look passed over her face. Harry could see her mind working; she was wondering if there was any personal motive behind his question, if he was looking for an opportunity to chat her up outside work.

  “I have to be away by ten,” she said in the end. “My boyfriend’s coming to pick me up.”

  Thus did she administer the brush-off. Harry, whose enthusiasm for false eyelashes and dirty fingernails was limited, could restrain his disappointment.

  Amiably, he said, “See you later at the Traders’, then.”

  “G’night.”

  After she had gone, he dictated into his tape recorder the instructions to Julian Hamer. He prepared the brief with the ease of long practice, his thoughts elsewhere. What did he hope to gain by turning up at this party? If he did not already have a business acquaintance with Doreen, he would never have contemplated confronting Stirrup’s motherin-law. But he felt he should try to persuade the two of them to abandon hostilities. If he succeeded, he would have sacrificed a fat fee, but it would be worth it. Life was too short for members of a family in crisis to go to war with each other.

  He finished work for the day and strolled in the evening sunshine through the gardens of Liverpool Parish Church towards the Traders’ Club. The discreet decor of that nineteenth-century monument to the city’s mercantile greatness was today disfigured by the gaudy green and red posters which festooned the entrance hall. Each of them bore a picture of an impossibly attractive woman working with demonic zeal at a word processor. Each was captioned: THE AU REVOIR STAFF AGENCY - SO CALLED BECAUSE YOU’LL NEVER WANT TO SAY GOODBYE TO OUR GIRLS. Harry winced. The minute Lucy returned from her holiday, he would be only too happy to bid Francesca farewell.

  “You’re early,” breathed a voice in his ear.

  Think of the devil. Francesca had changed into a green skirt and red blouse and doused herself in enough perfume to mask the smell of a glue factory. She pinned a green and red name badge to his lapel and handed him a green and red complimentary biro, which looked as if it might last a week before leaking its contents into his jacket pocket.

  “First to arrive,” she said, picking up a tray of wine from a nearby table. “Fancy a drink?”

  “Thought you’d never ask. Where’s the boss?”

  Francesca waved a hand vaguely. “All over the place. Bellowing orders. Panicking about whether anyone’s going to turn up.”

  He scanned the room. Half a dozen girls loitered in corners, chatting and filching crisps and peanuts intended for the guests. A door at the back opened and Doreen Capstick swept in. Her tight pink summer dress - no green and red uniform for her - displayed a deep and impressive cleavage down which Harry couldn’t help staring. Their eyes met and her scarlet lips relaxed into a welcoming smile. All nervous energy, she bustled towards him, arms outstretched.

  “Lovely to see you!” She presented a powdered cheek for Harry to kiss. “It’s been a long time. How are you, my dear? Fran’s working for you at the moment, isn’t she? Marvellous. One of our very best girls, you know.”

  Christ, thought Harry.

  “Busy as ever?”

  “Can’t complain,” he said. “Matter of fact, your son-in-law is keeping me fully occupied at present.”

  The smile died and the fulsome note left her voice. “Jack Stirrup? Of course. I’d forgotten you act for him.”

  “You’ll be getting a direct reminder soon. Jack saw your letter to Claire. As you obviously intended. The letter’s libellous, Doreen, you must know that. You’re as good as accusing him of having killed Alison.”

  A dangerous light sparkled in her blue eyes. “Are you saying he’s innocent?”

  “Of course. There’s not a shred of evidence to justify your pointing the finger at him.”

  “The police don’t agree.”

  “They interviewed him again yesterday. After you’d been agitating. And they released him without charge.”

  “My daughter has vanished,” said Doreen Capstick, her voice hard with anger. “It’s not in her nature. She’s always been quiet, not a tearaway, like me in my younger days. There can only be one explanation.”

  “Parents don’t know everything about their children. There might be plenty of reasons why she wanted a break. For example, another man.”

  A bitter laugh. “I may not know everything, but you don’t know anything about Alison. She simply wasn’t like that. I took care bringing her up. She never messed around with boys as a kid. Jack Stirrup was one of the first men she ever went out with. That was why he managed to take her in. With a bit more experience she’d have recognised him for what he was. A self-centred, arrogant, male chauvinist pig. I warned her, but she wouldn’t listen. And I was proved right. He never made her happy.”

  Harry sighed. “You simply can’t say that.”

  “I can and I do! I could tell she was miserable. Right from the start. I didn’t pry. Alison was very self-contained, a very private person. And she was loyal to a fault, wouldn’t say anything against the man. But a mother isn’t easily fooled.”

  “So what does writing to the girl achieve? From all accounts, she isn’t your number one fan.”

  “I’ll be honest with you. I rang the police yesterday afternoon. They told me they hadn’t arrested Stirrup. He’s clever, all right. But he’s got a temper - sooner or later it’ll snap. To get at the truth I have to needle him, bring him out into the open. I knew that little slut would show him the letter and that he’d be angry enough to do something about it. So go ahead, Harry. Issue a writ, see how much I care. I’d love all this to co
me out in court.”

  She folded her arms and challenged him with her stare. Harry thought of Alison Stirrup, slight, pale and not in the least over-bearing. If she had nothing in common with her husband, her resemblance to her mother was only skin deep. They shared little more than blonde hair and blue eyes. Harry felt a sudden rush of sympathy for a woman to whom he had scarcely given a thought prior to her disappearance. She was one of life’s outsiders.

  “Maybe she was so unhappy she decided she had to get up and go without a word - not even to you.”

  “Ridiculous! She’s my daughter, remember. Besides, weeks have passed now. She would have got in touch. She wouldn’t have let me worry myself sick like this.”

  “I know you’re worried. Don’t blame you for that. Any mother would be. Surely you and Jack could get together. Talk things through. You might be able to find some common ground. He’s just as distraught as you are, there’s…”

  “Talk things through?”

  Doreen’s scorn was histrionic. Out of the corner of his eye Harry could see Francesca and her cronies watching them with undisguised interest, wondering what was being said, barely giving a second glance to the handful of men in business suits who had drifted into the room during the last few minutes and were now standing around with puzzled faces, waiting for attention.

  “How do you talk things through with the man who has murdered your only child?” Doreen hissed. “No, it’s impossible. Alison is dead, I’ve simply got to reconcile myself to that, terrible as it is. She wouldn’t have left so suddenly, saying not a word to anyone, taking nothing with her. He’s killed her and hidden the body, there’s no other explanation. And I’m not going to rest until he’s made to pay for his crime.”

  Tears began to fill her eyes. Gulping for breath, she said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, other guests are arriving. My solicitors are Windaybanks. Correspond with them if you feel so inclined.”