Helpless, Harry watched his quarry disappear downstairs. He would have to catch up with the old man some other time.
“Nothing constructive. Sounds as if she wants her day in court.”
Julian tutted. “At all events, her foolish letter fades into insignificance compared with what has happened since. I was sorry to hear about your client’s daughter, Harry. Please convey my sympathy to him.”
“Thanks, I will.” Hamer’s words were right, he thought, but uttered so mechanically as to divest them of meaning. He studied the barrister. At close quarters, the man looked ill.
“Are you all right, Julian?”
“Fine, fine.” Hamer made a dismissive gesture with a handful of court papers. “More importantly, what about you? Rumour has it you’re no longer content with defending villains. You’re even chasing and capturing them now.”
“Anything I can do to make more work for the profession.”
“Valerie told me that her father was going to host a celebratory lunch today.”
“I’m just staggering back to the office.”
Harry wished he could shake off the prickly reaction he experienced whenever Julian Hamer uttered Valerie’s name. Surely after last night he had no need to fear competition? But the barrister’s next words did nothing to cheer him.
“She’s a remarkable girl, Harry. Even you don’t know the half of it about her.”
As Hamer spoke, his haggard expression softened. Harry wondered if he was being teased intentionally.
“Yeah, well.”
“Anyway, I mustn’t keep you. As I say, I’m sorry to hear about Stirrup. Troubles never come singly, do they?”
With a nod Hamer strolled away to the cafeteria. Harry wasn’t sorry to see him go. The liveliness which the first couple of glasses of champagne had sparked in him had gone. All at once he felt dry-mouthed and melancholic. His achievements of the past two days seemed to have diminished.
All right, so he and Valerie had become lovers. But from what she had said before parting, he sensed that last night meant less to her than to him. And with Hamer lurking in the background, evidently on the cosiest of terms with her, Harry still felt insecure.
And all right, so he had contributed by accident to the uncovering of a crime, but the mystery of Stirrup’s double loss remained. Curiosity kept nagging at him like a disgruntled wife. Until he understood the fate of Alison Stirrup and her step-daughter, there would be no rest for Harry Devlin.
Chapter Twenty
A tiny blonde girl pretending to be Mandy Rice-Davies kept simpering, “Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” whenever a pause occurred in the conversation. She had a naive smile and, for all that her leather skirt was slit to the thigh, lacked both the wit and the cheap allure that Harry associated with Stephen Ward’s playmate. The arm round her shoulder belonged to a leering middle-aged man whose disconcerting facial resemblance to Tony Hancock was not matched by his Geordie accent and habit of guffawing at his own unfunny jokes. Harry understood that from nine to five the couple played the parts of Bryan Grealish’s insurance broker and his secretary. He hoped those roles suited them better.
The party was in full swing and the Gracie Fields Room in the Majestic was packed to capacity. The walls were adorned with life-size cardboard cut-outs of the heads and shoulders of sixties heroes like John F. Kennedy and Bob Dylan. Over the hum of conversation, Gene Pitney wailed about his abortive journey back to Tulsa and complained that he could never, never, never go home again.
Talk had turned to the permissive society and the abolition of capital punishment. Slipping out of character, the insurance man tapped a pipe-smoking Harold Wilson on the shoulder and said, “What about deterrence, then? Take this bugger The Beast for instance. Now tell me this…”
Harry decided it was time to move on. At least that was in keeping with his chosen character. Richard Kimble, the TV fugitive who never had much luck catching up with the one-armed man seen running away from the scene of a crime. Distantly Harry could recall from his youth the occasional graffito saying: KIMBLE IS INNOCENT. But he couldn’t recall whether in the end justice had been done.
In the corner of the room Valerie, dressed as Diana Ross in her Supremes hey-day, was being chatted up by a hairy-chested Fred Flintstone. She seemed to be enjoying herself. Harry picked up another glass of wine from a tray carried by a girl made up to look like a youthful Mary Quant.
“Having fun?”
He turned to face a mask of mascara topped with a mass of platinum blonde hair. It took him a moment to penetrate the disguise and identify Grealish’s girlfriend. What was her name? Stephanie, yes.
“‘I Just Don’t Know What To Do With Myself.’”
“What?”
“You’re Dusty Springfield, right?” He sighed. “That was the best of her songs.”
“Yeah?” The girl wasn’t into pop history. She studied him with a frown. “You haven’t bothered to dress up. I think you’re the only one here in a suit.”
“Do you mind?” Harry tried to explain about Kimble, the man suspected of a crime he did not commit, but Stephanie had not even seen the repeats on Channel 4 and he soon gave up.
“So where’s Bryan - or should I say Elvis?” Grealish made a good Presley; he had the King’s lip curl off to perfection. “I haven’t seen him for a while. Last time I spotted him he was deep in conversation with one of the coppers from Z-Cars.”
“His accountant, would you believe?” Stephanie yawned. “They went off in a huddle. I got told to circulate.”
“The perfect hostess?”
“Do me a favour, I’m bored stiff. And as for bloody Bryan, he’s so wrapped up in talking about his money and his deals, he wouldn’t notice if I stripped off and lay down in the middle of the floor.”
“Try it. The Gracie Fields Room would never be the same again.”
“You must be joking. And who was Gracie Fields anyway?”
Harry thought about explaining that all the public rooms here were named after stars of yesteryear who had appeared at long-gone New Brighton landmarks like the Tivoli or Winter Gardens, but decided against it. To Stephanie, even the sixties were a bygone age.
“Men!” she snorted. He had the feeling she liked to have an audience, even if only of one mere male. “No consideration. Bryan’s a typical feller. No different really from Claire’s old man.”
“You’ve met Jack Stirrup?”
“There was a parents’ day at school. Claire introduced us. He thought the sun shone out of her backside.”
“Yes.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound, like, callous.” She shivered and Harry didn’t think she was being theatrical. “The sooner they catch him, the better.”
“The Beast?”
“Right. The crazy bastard. It’s frightening. That’s two girls I know he’s attacked. Makes you feel he’s getting closer all the time. And then there’s the blonde hair thing. I haven’t gone out on my own since the papers wrote about that.”
“Claire wasn’t blonde.”
“No. You’d have thought she was safe. Shows you, doesn’t it? No one’s safe.”
“You said you knew someone else, another of The Beast’s victims.”
“Right. Gina. Gina Jean-Jacques. She goes to the same school - Hilbre Hall.”
Harry stared at her. “Jean-Jacques, you say?”
“Right. Why?”
“The name reminds me of someone, that’s all. Anyway, what happened to her?”
Stephanie Elwiss looked at the floor. All of a sudden Harry remembered he was speaking to a young girl whose sophistication was as easy to wipe away as Dusty’s make-up.
“She was raped. One day when she was walking along the Wirral Way at Caldy. It’s a public place, you’d never believe anything could happen to you there in broad daylight. But it did.”
“Do you know Gina well?”
“We were friends for a while. Not so much now. She’s young for her age. And terribly shy, more int
erested in her ponies than boys. Different from me. When I got mixed up with Bryan, I reckon she decided I was a bit of a slut.”
“How is she now?”
“How would you be? I went to see her once, we all did. It was like meeting a different person, Claire said the same. Gina always used to be going on about her bloody horses. When I went to see her, she didn’t mention them once. As if she’d grown up overnight and hated it.”
“You talked about her to Claire? I didn’t realise you two saw each other out of school.”
“We didn’t, as a rule. No, she came round to the house last Thursday. Bryan was busy, so I was spending the evening at home with Mum.”
“So this was out of the ordinary? A visit from Claire on the off chance that you were in for once?”
“What are you getting at?”
“No idea. I’m interested, though. Jack Stirrup’s a good client of mine. Anything I can do to cast a little light on what happened to Claire will help.”
Stephanie shrugged. “Not much I can say.”
“Don’t be so sure. What did she want to see you about?”
“All she said was, her conscience had been nagging her to go round again and see how well Gina was recovering. She’d gone with Pam McDougall soon after it happened. That was the only time.”
“Did this talk about conscience surprise you?”
“Well…” Stephanie pondered. “Suppose it did.”
“Why?”
“I wouldn’t have expected it from Claire. Some people, yes, but not her. Never speak ill of the dead and all that, but she wasn’t exactly Florence Nightingale, you know? The way she went on after she got that yellow belt in karate! Mind you, she probably needed self-defence with that creepy boyfriend of hers… But I wouldn’t have thought she’d want to waste any more time with Gina. They were never pally.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Claire kept going on about how nightmarish it was. You know, to be raped by a man who wore a mask. So that you could pass him in the street a week later when he was ordinarily dressed and you wouldn’t even give him a second glance. Nothing to recognise, you see.”
“Anything else?”
“She said she was going to visit Gina again the next day. Last Friday.”
Harry felt a finger stroking the back of his neck. He knew that touch.
“Escaped from your prehistoric friend?” he asked without turning round.
“Jealous?” Valerie put her arm round his neck and pulled his face towards hers. Her smile was as provocative as the way her hips swung beneath the mini dress.
“I’d better be going,” said Stephanie. Without another word she melted into the crowd.
“Fancy her?” asked Valerie.
“Who’s jealous now?”
“We don’t own each other. Not even after last night. I don’t mind if you want to chat up pretty girls.”
“As Dusty used to sing: ‘I Only Want to Be With You.’”
She leaned against him, using his strength for support. “Bet you say that to all the lady barristers.”
Something impelled him to say, “I mean it, Val. You’re the only one.”
The small dark-skinned girl smiled. There was a woozy flirtatiousness about everything she said and did tonight. Harry guessed that at lunch and this evening she had drunk far more than she was accustomed to.
“I’m flattered. Really I am. Only…” Her face clouded for a moment.
“Yes?”
“Don’t get possessive, will you?”
“Why not?” he asked softly.
“‘Cause I’m not ready for it, that’s why not. Life’s short. Why make chains for yourself before it’s time?”
“Meaning?”
“Nothing in particular.” She stood upright with an effort at dignity which merely emphasised her lack of sobriety.
“Come on, what are you saying?” Harry knew he was making a mistake, but he too had been drinking and he felt the need to press the point, to ignore the voice in his mind which urged discretion.
“Oh well, if you must know. I don’t want to get tied down too soon. Do you understand?”
The message behind the question made Harry bite his lip in dismay. It was as if a ghost had started tapping on his shoulder. When Valerie was so unlike Liz, in looks and background and personality, when everything about their relationship was so different, why did she suddenly remind him of his former wife? Uninvited, the answer crept into his head. Because you need her more than she needs you, that’s why.
“I think so.”
“Oh Christ. Don’t sound so defensive. Perhaps it’s time for me to go.”
“Okay. I’m ready.”
“No need for you to come too, Harry. We don’t have to spend every night together.”
“I’d like to spend tonight with you.”
Valerie wrinkled her brow. “Look, let’s slow down a little, shall we? I already said, I don’t want to drift into something heavy just yet. We both have our own lives to lead.”
A sickening sense of frustration engulfed him. For a moment he was seized by the urge to strike out blindly, heedless of the consequences.
“And you have your own private interests to pursue, I suppose?” He didn’t try to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
“What the hell do you mean by that?”
“Come on, Val. Julian Hamer’s hovering in the background still, isn’t he?”
She stared at him, her face reddening with either embarrassment or anger. Or both. “For God’s sake! What’s Julian got to do with it?”
He should have stopped there, while an escape route remained open, but drink and disappointment had hold of him and he plunged on recklessly.
“Quite a lot, hasn’t he? The two of you seem very close.”
“Harry, I never thought you’d be so puerile. We’re adults, I’m entitled to do as I want. Julian’s a very dear friend, let me tell you. He helped me when I was starting out in the law, persuaded David Base to pass me the briefs he had to turn down because of pressure of work. I owe him a lot. He’s been going through a rough time lately and I’ve told him, anything I can do to help, I will. Your behaving like a jealous child won’t make me change my mind.”
The real Elvis was crooning from the speakers now. He sang that he was caught in a trap, protested that they couldn’t go on together with suspicious minds.
Harry said, “Have it your own way. Do you want a lift home or shall I call a taxi?”
She could match him for stubbornness. “No need. I can call a cab myself. Good night.”
As she stalked off through the crowd, he realised too late how badly he had behaved and called after her despairingly, “Valerie, I’ll give you a ring. Okay?”
But she didn’t give any sign that she had heard and he stood with bowed head long after she had disappeared from sight.
Chapter Twenty-One
The sun was high over the River Dee as Harry drove slowly along the promenade at West Kirby, checking the numbers of the houses to his left. Hearty businessmen who had slipped away from work early to take advantage of the glorious afternoon were filling the air with plummy-voiced camaraderie as they tinkered with boats on the marina. The atmosphere was so genteel that it was hard to believe that on the peninsula’s other coast, no more than seven miles away, were the scruffy novelty shops and litter-strewn burger bars of New Brighton.
Harry identified a smartly painted three-storey maisonette as the place he was seeking. As he rang the doorbell, he became aware of an unexpected nervousness, a weak feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Sally Jean-Jacques answered at once. She was as attractive as he had remembered. He knew her to be forty but her shoulder-length ash-blonde hair was as fine as that of any teenager and her sky blue jump suit displayed a figure still slender and tempting.
“Harry, how good to see you again.”
When they had spoken earlier on the phone, he had recalled how her gentle way of speaking had alway
s appealed to him. There was nothing strident about her. She was one of those people who, even after a gap in time, can pick up a friendship or acquaintance as if it had continued without interruption for half a lifetime.
“Thanks for being willing to talk, Sally.”
She didn’t offer to shake hands; she wasn’t someone whom formality appealed. Instead she smiled and said, “Come in. You’ll have to take us as you find us, I’m afraid. I haven’t bothered to dust or anything since you called.”
“Are you well?” He didn’t ask out of mere politeness. He hoped she was fine; she deserved to be.
“Speaking for myself, seldom been better,” she said, leading him into a large living room with a vast Indian rug draped over the floor and Oriental hangings suspended from the picture frame. “Take a seat. Would you like some tea?”
“No thanks, I won’t take up too much of your time.”
“No hurry.” They sat down facing each other and she smiled at him. “Hughie works long hours. He isn’t due until half-seven. We won’t be eating till after then.”
“Hughie?”
“The new man in my life,” she said with a laugh. “Hughie Wakefield. He runs a business which digs holes in the ground and then fills them in again at a large profit. I always knew business works in a mysterious way, but I never realised how mysterious till I met Hughie.”
“Wakefield Waste?” Harry nodded. “I know them. Big company.” Unexpectedly, he felt a sense of disappointment at her news, which was as irrational as it was unfair. Sally had known hard times. Why should he begrudge her a little pleasure?
As if she could read his thoughts, she said, “It took a while for me to get over Clive. Now I’m simply spreading my wings again.”
“I’m glad,” he said. And, after his momentary pang of envy, he meant it.
Three years earlier he had acted for Sally Jean-Jacques in her divorce. She had been widowed at thirty and left a tidy sum by her first husband, a dentist twenty years her senior who had died of cancer. Too quickly Sally had re-married, to a marketing consultant from Bermuda whom she had met while taking a hard earned holiday after months of nursing a dying man. Clive Jean-Jacques had been fun when times were good between them, violent when they were not. After he had fractured her jaw in a fit of drunken temper she had decided that enough was enough and had walked out with Gina and returned to her roots in Merseyside.
Suspicious Minds (Harry Devlin) Page 14