Part Two

Chapter 8

‘But the evidence…’ Harry began.

Ashley’s expression showed what he thought about the evidence. ‘I know that, as a lawyer, you’re bound to say that there’s nothing at all to suggest that someone else killed Luke. The police took the same attitude when I spoke to them.’

‘So you’ve already raised this idea officially?’

‘Oh yes. And it got me nowhere. Their minds were made up. It was a simple case, easily ticked off the list of things to deal with. I suppose I can’t blame them. They are overworked and at first sight it does all seem very straightforward. Middle-aged, middle-class man going through his own kind of mid-life crisis. Well-respected, but with an empty private life. One day he flips and books into a hotel. He spends the evening drinking in his room and eventually he plucks up the courage to kill himself. The conclusion is obvious - unless you know the man as I did.’

Harry recalled his conversation with Frances. ‘How well can we know anyone else?’

‘I understand your point,’ Ashley said. ‘But bear with me. In my opinion, Luke wasn’t the suicidal type - in fact, he was the last person in the world who was likely to do something like this. But suppose I’m wrong. I’m certain - absolutely certain - that if he did, he would leave behind a message, an explanation of some kind. Yet there was nothing.’

‘There’s no law that says a suicide has to explain himself to the people he leaves behind.’

‘Yes, but in Luke’s case, I find his supposed behaviour inconceivable. He was the most methodical man I ever met. You’re well aware yourself that he hated loose ends.’

‘He tried to call you in Toronto,’ Harry pointed out.

‘Yes, and he failed. The official assumption, as I understand it from reading between the lines at the inquest, is that he was planning to break the news to me on the telephone. Yet when he didn’t manage to get through to me, he is supposed simply to have clambered through the window and jumped out. Sorry, but I just don’t buy that.’

‘I agree it seems extraordinary,’ Harry said carefully. He did not wish to make the usual lawyer’s mistake of putting words into someone else’s mouth.

‘Yes, I gathered that you were puzzled from your remarks at the inquest and at the church. That’s one of the reasons why I thought I would have a chat with you about it all.’

‘But what about the possibility that it was an accident?’

Ashley pulled a face. ‘I realise the hotel manager has to protect his own back. But I’ve had a look at the hotel. I turned up there yesterday, pretending to be interested in booking rooms for a group of friends. I’ve seen the room in which - it happened.’ He sighed. ‘I take the man’s point. It’s unlikely that Luke died by accident.’

‘Even if he’d had a skinful?’

‘It’s physically possible that it happened that way. But I simply don’t believe it.’

‘You prefer to think that someone else was responsible?’

‘It’s not a matter of preference,’ Ashley said sharply. ‘It’s a question of trying to find out the truth.’

Harry looked at the overburdened shelves all around them. Titles such as And Death Came Too, Murder Included and Ten Minute Alibi spoke for themselves. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but isn’t it possible that you’re letting your imagination run away with itself?’

Ashley folded his arms. ‘Melissa thinks so. The police were courteous, but obviously felt the same. They pointed out that there were no signs of a struggle in the hotel room, no evidence to suggest someone else had been present there, let alone that murder was done. I hoped you would have a more open mind.’

‘Because I’m often accused of excessive imagination as well?’

A slow grin eased across Ashley’s face. ‘I suppose so. But the truth is that you’ve been proved right more than once where murder is concerned.’ The grin disappeared. ‘And I thought you’d be interested if I told you that whilst I was at the Hawthorne, I talked to as many members of the staff as I could. Guess what I found out?’

‘Tell me.’

‘There is a porter, a chap called Julio. He wasn’t keen to talk, but I sensed he knew something and eventually I prised it out of him. The evening that Luke died, he passed his room, carrying a late arrival’s luggage. He heard raised voices. Two people were in there, arguing about something.’

‘Luke and who else?’

Ashley grimaced. ‘He couldn’t tell me. He was hurrying past, keen to finish his shift. If the man in the room hadn’t died, he’d never have given the incident a second thought.’

‘Was anyone seen around the place at the relevant time? An unauthorised visitor, someone hurrying away in a panic? Anything like that?’

Ashley shook his head. ‘It’s a big anonymous place, understaffed at night. The security struck me as rudimentary. As far as I can tell, anyone could have wandered in or out, with little risk of being challenged.’

‘Why wasn’t Julio’s information mentioned at the inquest?’

‘He told me he hadn’t reported it to anyone. I sensed it was bothering him, but not enough for him to want to do anything about it, to call attention to himself. Don Ragovoy was keen to brush Luke’s death under that carpet and that was fine by Julio.’

‘You told the police about this?’

Ashley nodded. ‘They said they would speak to Julio, but they made it clear they weren’t really interested.’

‘Of course, even if Luke met someone at the Hawthorne and had a quarrel with him - or her - it doesn’t prove he was murdered by that someone.’

‘True. But it makes it more likely. And remember that Luke had been drinking. He may have opened the window for a bit of air. Even if there was a struggle, he may not have been able to put up much of a fight. In any case, he may have been taken unawares and hit on the head before being pushed out. I gather - he was pretty smashed up by the fall. No way of tracing a prior head injury.’

‘Plenty of ifs in that theory. But suppose you’re right. What can you do about it?’

‘Listen, Harry. My parents died a long time ago. Apart from Melissa, Luke was the person I was closest to in the world. Even though we didn’t live in each other’s pockets, could go weeks without seeing each other, he was someone I always respected, could always rely upon and turn to if ever there was a need. To think of him dying in the way he did makes me sadder than I can describe. If he didn’t kill himself, I owe it to him to find out what happened. And to see justice done.’

Neither of them spoke for a few moments and then Harry said, ‘Why would anyone want to kill Luke? And how did they manage it?’

‘So,’ Ashley said softly, ‘you are prepared to humour me, to entertain the idea that this might be a case of murder?’

Harry chewed at a ragged fingernail. ‘Tell you something. The thought had already crossed my mind.’

Ashley’s eyes gleamed. ‘Really?’

‘I never mentioned it to anyone. I was sure they’d dismiss it as one of my idler fancies - you know the feeling? But my reasoning was much the same as yours. I could accept, with difficulty, that Luke might have wanted to do away with himself, that he might have concealed from the rest of us his deep unhappiness and dissatisfaction with life. But the absence of a note or message - particularly to yourself - that just didn’t add up.’

Elated, Ashley clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I was sure you were the man to talk to about this. So - what’s the next step?’

Harry indicated the shelves of mysteries which surrounded them. ‘If you and I can’t come up with a few ideas, who can?’

They finished up having a meal together at the Ensenada. Ashley insisted on paying and Harry did not argue too strenuously. What was the point of knowing people with money if you did not help them to spend it?

‘Would you like to talk to me about Luke?’ he said as the soup arrived. ‘It would be helpful for me to understand him better. Bear in mind I only ever saw him in a professional context. I couldn’t claim that we were bosom buddies: it was a formal relationship.’

‘He may have seemed austere, but the truth is that he was very shy. Painfully afraid of doing the wrong thing. Perhaps it was down to his upbringing. He was an only child of elderly parents. Father an actuary, mother a doting housewife. They weren’t short of money. As a boy he suffered a lot of ill health and I think his mother over-protected him. He had a rather solitary adolescence and to the best of my knowledge, my own mother was the first girl he ever courted, at the age of twenty-one.’

‘But they didn’t marry.’

‘No. My guess is that she was keen to settle down and grew tired of waiting for Luke to pop the question. Then she met my father at a dance. He rode a motor cycle, was a glamorous figure in comparison to Luke. She was swept off her feet. By the time they were married, three months later, I was already on the way.’

‘And Luke kept in touch?’

‘He told me more than once that he was heartbroken at losing her. And she did care for him, insisted on asking him to be my godfather. But she never admitted to any regrets about her choice, even when my father crashed on a bend when I was five and broke his neck.’ Ashley sighed. ‘It was a tough time. I’ve been poor and I’ve been rich, Harry and there’s no doubt: rich is a lot better.’

‘I suppose that if Luke hadn’t married by that time…’

‘It’s crossed my mind that he and Mother might still have got together, yes. But who knows? It’s history. In any case, she met my stepfather.’ Ashley grimaced. ‘Another likely lad. A bar owner this time.’

‘Meanwhile, Luke lost his own wife.’

‘It was a tragedy. To understand Luke, you have to bear in mind that Gwendoline’s illness was diagnosed before they first became engaged. He’d met her after the break with my mother. Whether it was on the rebound or not, I have no idea, but no-one could have been more devoted. He proposed to Gwendoline and they were married only weeks after she was told about the cancer. Against all the odds, she recovered.’

‘I didn’t realise.’

‘Oh yes, I’ve been told that it seemed like a miracle. Very romantic, you know, love conquering disaster. And by all accounts they had a happy married life. Until, out of the blue, the illness recurred. They had thought it was gone for ever, but really it was only sleeping. This time there was no happy ending. But Luke nursed her through it all. He took his obligations very seriously.’

Harry nodded. ‘Even his worst enemy would have been forced to admit that.’

Ashley leaned across the little table. ‘And it has crossed my mind that, if there was a motive for his murder, that particular characteristic may have provided it. If he came across something that was not right, he would have considered himself duty-bound to act. Luke was never a man to turn a blind eye to wrongdoing.’

‘Have you any particular wrongdoing in mind?’

Ashley seemed to be on the verge of imparting a confidence, then blinked hard and kept his mouth shut after all. Harry was about to press him when he noticed a familiar couple being ushered to a table in the opposite corner of the restaurant. He couldn’t help chuckling. So Geoffrey Willatt and Vera Blackhurst really had become an item.

As he sat down, Geoffrey caught Harry’s eye. At once his cheeks turned pink, giving him the look of a bishop caught straying into a peep-show. Harry lifted a hand in greeting and then decided to seize the moment. After all, presented with a gift horse, it was a mistake to start looking it in the mouth.

He excused himself to Ashley and strolled over to the corner table. ‘Evening, Geoffrey. Miss Blackhurst, we’ve met before. At Charles Kavanaugh’s funeral.’

Her smile of greeting did not touch her eyes. ‘Mr Devlin, isn’t it? I remember. You act for the Trust, don’t you?’

He had to admire her coolness. Vera Blackhurst was someone it would be a mistake to underestimate. Her hairstyle was pure sixties Myra Hindley, while her dress displayed a pair of breasts whose gravity-defying upward thrust was a miracle of science. ‘That’s right. I suppose we’re on opposite sides of the legal fence at the moment.’

Geoffrey Willatt cleared his throat. ‘I mentioned to Mr Devlin the other evening that I felt sure that our - little local difficulty could be amicably resolved.’

‘I’m sure of it,’ Vera said pleasantly. ‘Charles often told me that he had a soft spot for the Trust. He was an artist himself, as you well know. I’d hate to see his favourite charity suffer.’

‘Nice of you to say so,’ Harry said with a sharp glance at Geoffrey, who was trying hard not to squirm.

‘On the other hand,’ she continued in an accent that Harry identified as broad Cheshire, ‘I’m ever so disappointed by the trustees’ reaction to Charles’s will. I’d have hoped that they would have respected his last wishes. After all, I’m just an ordinary person. The last thing I want is a legal dispute. I’m so fortunate I’ve found an understanding solicitor.’

There was nothing in the least bit ordinary about Vera Blackhurst, Harry was sure of that. He turned to the understanding solicitor, who looked as though he’d suddenly become afflicted by dyspepsia, and said, ‘Combining business with pleasure, then, this evening?’

‘We have one or two things to discuss,’ Geoffrey said stiffly. ‘The office isn’t always the ideal setting for these meetings. Miss Blackhurst has had a very trying time lately. She was very attached to her late employer. I suggested that we chat over a bite to eat.’

‘Better not let Pino hear you talk about his cuisine like that,’ Harry teased. The loquacious proprietor of the Ensenada was fiercely protective of its reputation for fine food. ‘You make it sound like a transport caff.’

‘You know what I mean,’ Geoffrey said through gritted teeth. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse us…’

‘Of course. Good to see you both. I’m sure we’ll be in touch.’ He grinned and returned to his seat.

‘Friends of yours?’ Ashley asked.

‘Not exactly.’ Harry told him the story. ‘But let’s get back to Luke’s death. Have you discussed your views with Frances Silverwood?’

‘No.’ Ashley gave him a searching glance. ‘Any particular reason why I should?’

‘Only that, apart from yourself, she seemed as close to Luke as anyone. And she obviously had a considerable affection for him. Was it reciprocated?’

‘Listen, Luke felt Gwendoline was irreplaceable. He’d become accustomed to living on his own after her death. I don’t think a second marriage was high on his agenda.’

‘Maybe he liked to keep Frances dangling on a string.’

‘You’re doing him an injustice. It would be nearer the truth to say that he treated women with an old-fashioned courtesy and attentiveness. Even someone who is no doormat can find that very appealing.’

‘I’d like to know what she thinks about your idea.’

‘This is difficult for me to express in the right way,’ Ashley began slowly. He fiddled with his napkin, not looking Harry in the eye. ‘But I have some reservations about mentioning this to any of the Kavanaugh trustees.’

‘And why is that?’

Ashley hesitated for a moment before replying. ‘Well, you see, the last time I saw Luke, he told me that he was expecting trouble within the Trust. There was a serious problem with one of the trustees. He said he’d been agonising over it, but he felt he had no choice but to act.’

‘Which trustee? And how was he going to act?’

Ashley seemed to be choosing his words with care. ‘There was no point in asking for more information than he was prepared to disclose. Besides, it was none of my business. The only thing that bothered me was Luke’s distress. He’d been sleeping badly. The whole affair, whatever it was, had been preying on his mind.’

‘When was this?’

‘Melissa and I invited him round for dinner just before we set off for Toronto. We talked while Melissa was out in the kitchen. I said the best thing would be to consult the Trust’s solicitors.’ He smiled. ‘Doing my best to drum up business for you, as usual.’

‘One of these days, I’ll put you on commission. But don’t hold your breath. As a matter of fact, Luke did speak to me.’

‘He did?’ Ashley was clearly relieved.

Harry recounted his last conversation with Luke Dessaur and Frances’s belief that, in the days leading up to his death, Luke had been afraid of something. ‘If only he’d given me a clearer idea about what was on his mind. Was it this problem with the unnamed trustee - or something else?’

‘What else could it have been?’ Ashley demanded. ‘He wasn’t rich but he didn’t have money worries. He told me years ago that he’d left everything he had to cancer charities, in memory of Gwendoline. That shows you the sort of chap he was.’

Harry nodded. ‘Like you, I didn’t cross-examine him. I wish now that I had.’

Ashley closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Of course, I’d like to believe that this business about an errant trustee was entirely unconnected with his death.’

Harry studied him. ‘Have you been able to guess who Luke was talking about?’

After a pause, Ashley said, ‘No, no. I haven’t.’

But he was blinking nervously and Harry thought: You may be a good book dealer, but you are a poor liar, my friend.

As Ashley was settling the bill, Harry spotted Pino and waved him over. ‘I see my old boss is still one of your most reliable customers. You know something? He was the first person who ever brought me here for a meal. It was when I qualified as a solicitor.’

‘Ah, a great cause for celebration!’

‘Tell you the truth, I think he was just ecstatic that I’d said I was planning to leave his firm. But do you know the lady he’s with, by any chance?’

‘I must be discreet!’ Pino said, putting his finger to his lips. It was akin to Mae West taking a vow of celibacy.

‘Of course,’ Harry said. ‘As you always are. I mustn’t be nosey. Not that there’s anything to be nosey about. Geoffrey’s divorced, isn’t he? He’s every right to take a lady friend out for dinner.’

‘Absolutely! And he and Miss Blackhurst have become regular customers these past two or three weeks, I’m glad to say.’

‘Is that so?’

Pino beamed and said, ‘I tell you one thing, Harry. In confidence, of course.’

‘Naturally,’ Harry said, crossing his fingers behind his back.

‘I would not be surprised if Miss Blackhurst were to become the second Mrs Willatt one day.’

‘You think so?’

‘Believe me. I see the signs. It is a love-match, that one.’

Harry looked back at the couple in the corner. Geoffrey Willatt had recovered his composure and was holding forth, probably on the iniquities of the Lord Chancellor’s treatment of the legal profession. Vera was gazing into his eyes, looking at him with the fondness of a butterfly collector studying a rare specimen. And for the first time in his life, Harry felt sorry for Geoffrey Willatt.

Back in his flat, Harry stayed up till the early hours, drinking more than was good for him and watching the late-night film. It was Night Moves, an old favourite not least because Gene Hackman played a long-suffering investigator by the name of Harry Moresby. Easy to identify with the character: he had a relentless need to know, an obsession with finding out things. Trouble was, it never did him any good.

Harry knew many of the scenes by heart. Eventually the detective would discover the truth about the disappearance of the wild child Delly, solve her murder and put a permanent end to her stepfather’s criminal scheme. But still the outcome would be disastrous for him. As the credits rolled at the end of the film, he would lie injured and helpless in a motor boat which kept going round and round in ever-widening circles.

Harry took another draught from his can and reviewed the day’s events. There were too many questions. What was Vera’s game? Why had she needed to fake the references she had supplied to Charles Kavanaugh? And was it possible that one of the trustees was also a murderer?

He toyed with the idea. Frances, Tim and Roy all lived alone and so, presumably, had no verifiable alibi for the time of Luke’s death. Matthew shared a house with his girlfriend, but he too might have been able to get the chance to commit the crime. He was chilled by the thought that he had been in their company on the night of Luke’s death and searched his memory for clues that might point him in the right direction. But there were none.

He sighed. What good would it do to try to learn if Ashley was right? Nothing could ever be proved. Turning up stones was usually a mistake. Yet he knew he would not be able to resist temptation even though, if Liz were still alive, she would surely be as cynical as Ellen Moresby, the errant wife who reproached her husband when he insisted he must go out on a case.

‘Why?’ she asked in a line that always haunted Harry. ‘So you can pretend you’re solving something?’

Chapter 9

Another morning, another murder. No doubt this time, no question of suicide or accident. A young woman had been found dead the previous evening in Upper Parliament Street, a pair of scissors driven into her back. According to the early bulletin on Radio City, the police were linking the case with a number of other killings.

As he shaved, Harry thought about the crime. So the Scissorman had struck again. For a couple of years now he had been stabbing prostitutes to death. All his crimes had been committed in northern cities; his last two victims had been Liverpool girls. The murder of a whore seldom made headline news but the media had finally seized on the Scissorman case after the trial of a suspect called Norman Morris had collapsed. An offender-profiling expert had declared himself confident that Morris was the guilty man and a woman detective working undercover had persuaded Morris to boast drunkenly that he was the man the police could not catch. The only snag was lack of evidence. And on the day of the Scissorman’s first murder in Liverpool, Morris had been with his publisher in London discussing a book about his ordeal.

Pulling on his shirt, Harry reflected that for as long as miscarriages like the Morris case occurred, there would be plenty of work for MOJO - and for Kim. It was so easy to be deceived by appearances. Morris was odious but innocent: for all anyone knew, the real culprit could be perfectly respectable, a pillar of society. A professional man, perhaps even a lawyer. As far as Harry was aware, no solicitor had yet metamorphosed into a serial killer. But there was always a first time.

The Scissorman’s latest killing was the talk of the Crown Court. Never before had two consecutive murders in the sequence been committed in the same city. In the robing room everyone was speculating about whether the murderer had settled in Liverpool. As Harry listened to the conversation, he could not help hearing in his mind the raucous cry of Davey Damnation.

‘And I gave her space to repent of her fornication; and she repented not!’

Quentin Pike was sitting in a corner, a bundle of unopened files on his lap. Usually he was at the heart of any group of gossips, but this morning he seemed uncharacteristically quiet. Harry wandered over to him and was startled to see that the tubby lawyer’s eyes were red and puffy.

‘You all right?’ As soon as the words left his lips, Harry realised it was a foolish question.

‘The dead girl,’ Quentin said in a voice barely audible above the buzz of conversation all around. ‘A sergeant downstairs mentioned her name. Half-caste girl called Celine. She is a client of mine. Was a client of mine.’

‘Ah.’

‘The stupid little bitch,’ Quentin said savagely. He was talking to himself rather than to Harry. ‘She was hell-bent on destroying her life. Heroin, cocaine, you name it. And she was a pretty girl. Delicate features, despite the shit she pumped into her system. Of course, she had the usual whore’s c.v. Parental abuse, taken into care, a long list of petty misdemeanours. She’d kept me busy since she first reached the age of criminal responsibility. I warned her, believe me, I warned her. I said she’d be dead before she was twenty-one.’

‘And how old was she?’

‘Sixteen the week before Christmas,’ Quentin said. ‘I overestimated her survival instinct.’

Harry put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. ‘We aren’t our clients’ keepers.’

Quentin Pike turned to face him. ‘No, but I tell you one thing. If I don’t mourn that silly girl, no-one else will.’

He clambered to his feet and, tucking the files under each arm, made his way unsteadily out of the room. Harry closed his eyes. Murder, he had learned, was like that. It was not a simple matter confined to the killer and the slain. So many lives were touched. The ripples kept spreading outwards.

Trying to rid his mind of the idea that had begun to form about Davey Damnation, he headed for the cafeteria and spotted Kim in the queue for service. He sidled up behind her and whispered, ‘Will you let me put a little magic into your life?’

She jerked round; her cheeks were pink. ‘My God, Harry, I wondered who it was.’

‘Sorry if I startled you. But it’s a serious proposition. A magician of my acquaintance is performing tonight at the Labour Club in Jericho Lane. He’s invited me along and I wonder if you’d like to come. And by the way, would you like to get me a coffee?’

When they were seated at a table, she said, ‘I had no idea you were into magic.’

‘I’ll try anything to make money out of the Legal Aid Board.’

‘In your dreams. They long ago mastered the black arts themselves.’

‘In that case, I may have to settle for entertainment. Can I tempt you?’

‘It’s a long time since I’ve been inside a Labour Club. At one time of day I was an active member of the Party. But it changed after it was taken over by the smarmy army. People who spent more time talking about justice, less in actually making it happen. Other things became more important to me than politics. Especially MOJO.’

Harry stirred his coffee with infinite care. ‘Speaking of which,’ he said without looking at her, ‘are you any nearer to reaching a decision?’

‘About what to do?’ She sighed. ‘I had a call from London last night. They’re starting to push. I decided I ought at least to speak again to Quentin this morning. But he’s not in the mood for business discussions today.’

‘Yes, I was speaking to him a couple of minutes ago. He’s taking the death of his client badly. You know, a strange thought crossed my mind…’

He hesitated. He’d been on the point of saying something about the Scissorman and Davey Damnation, but now did not seem the right moment. Besides, Kim had started to talk about Quentin.

‘He cares about his work more than most people realise,’ she said. ‘That’s something I have to weigh in the balance. If - if I did sell my business, I’d want the firm that took over to look after my clients. If they didn’t, no-one else would. But I’d trust Quentin to fight for them.’

‘So - you are thinking of making the move?’

She bent her head low over the coffee cup. ‘God, Harry. It’s one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make. The job means so much to me. But I don’t want to let you down.’

‘London isn’t the end of the world.’

‘I mustn’t be unfair. Being Chief Executive of MOJO isn’t a nine-to-five job, any more than yours is. How often do you think we would see each other if we were two hundred miles apart? We need to be realistic. If I move, what sort of future is there for our relationship?’

He finished his drink. ‘Do you want it to have a future?’

‘I - oh, I just feel guilty, that’s all. Since we started to go out together, it’s as if I’ve messed you around all the time.’

He moved his head close to hers. ‘I’m very fond of you, Kim. You know that. But I’d hate you to pass on the job, stay here and always resent me for it.’

‘This magic show.’ Her voice faltered slightly. ‘When will you be picking me up?’

Walking through the city streets in a daze, he found himself on the other side of the road from the magistrates’ court. Davey Damnation was in full flow, haranguing a couple of hapless trainee solicitors.

‘And I will give unto every one of you according to your works!’

Harry had always had a soft spot for Davey. The man’s sheer persistence, his determination to rant away come rain or shine seemed perversely admirable. But he knew nothing about him, neither where he lived nor where he came from. Nor whether he was capable of deeds to match his wild words. Harry stared at the scarecrow-like figure, trying to decide what - if anything - he should do when someone shouted his name. With a guilty start, he glanced over his shoulder, to see Matthew Cullinan hurrying down Dale Street towards him. He was accompanied by Inge Frontzeck.

‘Just the man! Sorry for bellowing, but you were obviously miles away.’

Harry mustered a smile. ‘Plenty to think about.’

‘Tough morning in court, eh? Never mind. Win a few, lose a few. You remember Inge, do you?’

She blushed. ‘How could he forget after our meeting at the Piquet Club?’

Harry surveyed her. She looked quite different when not dressed for work. Elegant make-up, expensive jewellery. Over her shoulder was slung a bag emblazoned with the logo of the city’s most prestigious fashion store. She was hanging on to Matthew’s arm as if afraid that if she let go she might never see him again. He felt a spasm of jealousy. If only Kim had been the proprietorial kind. But then she would have been a different woman and he would not have cared for her so much.

He indicated the bag. ‘Shopping trip?’

Matthew grinned. ‘Just as well we bumped into you. Another couple of hours and we’d both have been paupers.’

She brushed his cheek with a finger. ‘I don’t remember you breaking into your capital this morning, Matt.’

‘You never gave me a chance. I’m surprised your plastic cards haven’t melted after all their activity. You know what women are like, Harry.’

‘Er - yes,’ Harry said, although experience had taught

him that he certainly didn’t. But he was puzzling over a contradiction he sensed in Matthew Cullinan. Matthew liked to make a big thing out of his desire to shun the limelight, especially where his charitable works were concerned. But when you came to know him, his manner was hardly that of someone anxious to do good by stealth. Perhaps it was simply that Harry knew so few upper-class people of any description, let alone any who wished to do good by stealth.

‘Look,’ Matthew said to Inge, ‘Since we’ve stocked up with enough food to feed an army, why don’t we invite Harry here to dinner? Tomorrow evening, perhaps? Do come, if you don’t have anything else on.’

‘It’s very kind of you…’ Harry hesitated. In other circumstances he would have been rifling through his collection of excuses for avoiding tedious social engagements. But he wanted to seize any chance to find out a little more about the Kavanaugh trustees.

‘You’ll have to check with Mrs Devlin first, of course,’ Inge said.

‘Well, no. My wife - she died three years ago.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Inge paused. ‘Is there someone you’d like to invite along as well? A friend?’

Harry thought about Kim’s reaction. A magic show at a Labour Club, fine. But a posh evening with people whom she would dislike on sight would certainly put the kiss of death on their relationship. If it wasn’t dead already. ‘Actually, there isn’t…’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Matthew said heartily. He fished in his wallet for a business card and scribbled on the back of it. ‘This is where we live. Say eight o’clock?’

Harry cringed inwardly but managed to force a smile. ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ he said.

The couple waved and were gone. And when he glanced back across the street, Davey Damnation too had disappeared.

Stephanie Hall was waiting in reception when he arrived back at New Commodities House. On the way, he had resolved to put Davey out of his mind, telling himself it was crazy to think that the pavement preacher could be capable of murder. Stephanie’s shoulders were hunched and although she had a magazine in her lap, she was ignoring it. Harry could sympathise with that: the dog-eared copies of Which New Multimedia System? that Jim had left lying around hardly made compelling reading.

‘This is a surprise,’ he said. ‘I’ve left a couple of messages for Jonah on the answering machine but he hasn’t got back to me. I wondered if something was wrong.’

‘There is,’ she said, following him into his room. ‘He’s in the Royal.’

Harry’s stomach lurched. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Heart attack,’ she said thickly, pulling a tissue from the pocket of her coat. ‘Too many of those bloody cheap cigarettes. He complained of chest pains when we had a meal together at the weekend. Six hours later he was in intensive care.’

Harry swore. ‘How is he?’

‘Oh, he’ll pull through. They put him back in a normal ward yesterday. The doctor says he’s as tough as old boots.’

The relief made Harry grin. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you needed a medical expert to tell you that. But I must visit him later on today. If he’s up to it.’

‘He’d like that. Though he’d never admit as much. I went to see him this morning. For the first time, he’d started to complain. His pillow wasn’t comfortable and the breakfast hadn’t been up to much. He couldn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed a full-scale fry-up. I took that as a good sign.’ Stephanie passed her tongue across her lips. ‘But things will have to change. He’ll have to take things easy for a while.’

‘Better wear protective clothing when you break the news to him.’

For the first time, she smiled. ‘Oh, if anyone can handle him, I can.’

‘I bet you’re right. The answering machine was quite a coup.’

‘Hard work, believe me.’ She leaned forward. ‘But then, I’m not afraid of that. And now Jonah will be forced to trust me with assignments more demanding than serving writs and keeping tabs on errant husbands. Which brings me to Vera Blackhurst.’

‘What’s the latest? The trustees would be thrilled if you discovered she’d just finished a five-stretch in Holloway Prison.’

‘I bet. At least I’m beginning to make progress through talking to people she met while she was working with Charles. There are one or two leads. She knows North Wales well, for example, and she once let slip that she lived in Colwyn Bay for a number of years. I’m planning to go over there on Saturday afternoon to find out precisely what she got up to there. I gather she may have grown up in Cheshire.’

‘I realise Jonah’s illness will slow the inquiry down.’

‘Thanks, but I do want to be professional about this. The show must go on and all that. I’d hate to let any client down after I’ve only been in the business five minutes. Especially such a high-profile client as the Kavanaugh Trust.’

‘Don’t worry. Besides, the trustees probably feel they are too high-profile for their own good at the moment. You heard about Luke Dessaur?’

She nodded and a smile began to spread against her face, though he guessed she was trying to suppress it.

‘What’s up?’

‘You want the honest answer?’

‘Usually,’ he said with a grin.

‘It’s just that when Jonah mentioned Dessaur’s death to me, he said, “Ten to one, Harry will start poking his nose in where it isn’t wanted”.’

Her mimicry of her uncle’s gruff tones was startlingly accurate and Harry laughed out loud. He was beginning to realise that it would be a mistake to underestimate this young woman.

‘He was right, as usual.’ He hesitated. ‘And the fact is, the further I’ve poked my nose in, the more I’ve become convinced there is something to smell.’

‘Such as?’

Almost without realising it, he found himself relating the whole story. By the time he was finished, Stephanie’s eyes were rounder and larger than ever. ‘So what do you intend to do?’

‘What can I do? The body has been buried, there’s no forensic evidence to prove that Luke was murdered. Nor will there ever be.’

She frowned. ‘Surely you won’t be content to let it go at that?’

‘Well,’ he admitted. ‘I thought I might ask a few questions. Perhaps talk to the trustees away from the formality of the board meetings. See whether or not Ashley is barking up the wrong tree.’

‘That’s more like it.’ She smiled. ‘Jonah’s told me about you. One thing he always says is this: you never give up. He once even described you as one of the stubbornest buggers he’d ever met. You should be flattered. It’s the highest praise he can bestow.’

He laughed. ‘Look, I must sort out a few things here before I go to visit him. And one other thing.’

‘Yes?’

Forget Jim and his disapproval, he thought. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to come over to Colwyn Bay with you at the weekend.’

She stared, unsure whether to be offended. ‘Thanks, but I really don’t need a chaperon.’

‘I’m sure you don’t,’ he said hastily. ‘That wasn’t what I meant at all. But I’ve always been fascinated by detectives - and I’m dying to find out the truth about Vera Blackhurst’s past. I’d never have had the courage to ask Jonah if I could accompany him.’

She took her glasses off and gave him a smile which transformed her earnest face. ‘I can imagine what he would have said. Of course, I’d be glad of the company. And I can pick your brains about the law on the journey. For my exam.’ She giggled at his bafflement. ‘I’m taking a course in private investigation.’

‘Jesus. What happened to the glamorous life of the gumshoe?’

She gave his scuffed Hush Puppies an appraising glance. ‘Same as happened to the wealthy lifestyle of the Liverpudlian lawyer, I expect.’

Chapter 10

The Labour Club’s wizened doorkeeper looked as if he’d been around since the days of the Tolpuddle Martyrs and found little to smile about in the intervening years. He sat on a wobbly plastic chair behind a Formica-topped table. Behind his head, a huge orange poster with black lettering announced that The Great Timothy was appearing tonight. Even in this stronghold of socialism, there was a place for private enterprise: a placard on the table offered the cheapest tinned tobacco on Merseyside. But the doorman’s demeanour reminded Harry of a picket outside the dock gates, constantly on the look-out for scabs trying to scuttle past. When Harry and Kim registered in the book for non-members, he pored over their signatures with thinly veiled suspicion.

Kim watched him with barely suppressed amusement and, when they had finally escaped his clutches, she linked her arm with Harry’s and whispered, ‘He probably suspects you of being a spy from Conservative Central Office.’

He handed their coats to a girl on cloakroom duty. ‘Being in the company of the honourable Matthew Cullinan must have rubbed off on me. By the way, I’ve been asked to a select dinner party with Matthew and his lady love. They suggested I bring a guest, but I thought you…’

‘From what little you’ve told me of the honourable Matthew, I’d rather pass,’ she said. ‘It’s years since the one and only time I made the mistake of attending a dinner party for toffs. I had a brief relationship with a solicitor who worked in-house for one of the big printing companies. He was invited to his boss’s mansion over on the Wirral and took me along. Our very first date, would you believe? God, it was an experience I’ll never forget. Five hours of small-talk about private school fees and goings-on in the local Tory Association.’

‘End of a beautiful friendship?’ he asked as the girl returned from her inner sanctum and handed him a receipt.

‘Not all that beautiful,’ Kim said. ‘I’m afraid you’ll be better off taking someone else.’

They entered the concert room. The stage was in darkness but the place was filling up and a crowd had already gathered at the bar. As Harry waited to be served, he glanced at the silent television in the corner. A handful of people were clustered around it, watching a boxing match on a satellite channel. He looked around. The walls were festooned with notices. Do Not Walk On The Dance Floor When The Artiste Is Performing. Anyone Found Bringing Their Food Or Drink On To The Premises Will Be Ejected. No Swearing. No Dogs. Have You Paid Your Annual Subscription Yet?

‘Takes me back to my schooldays,’ Kim said when the drinks had been bought. ‘My father used to be the steward in a club exactly like this. I spent my formative years watching housewives playing bingo, throwing my pocket money away on the one-armed bandits, eavesdropping on the gossip about the latest scandal, the latest bit of in-fighting between committee members.’

Harry grinned. He’d found Jonah in characteristically crusty form that afternoon and it had lifted his spirits to see that the old curmudgeon was on the mend. ‘These places are all the same. My old man used to be the coach at a non-league football club. When I was a boy, he used to give me coins to keep me occupied on the jukebox whilst he chewed the fat with his cronies.’

‘So we have something in common, apart from the law?’

‘More than maybe either of us realise.’

Quickly, too quickly for Harry’s liking, she returned to her original theme. ‘I remember that every now and then I would spot the Member of Parliament popping his head round the door once his constituency surgery was done for the week. He’d have a quick look to see if there was anyone he needed to be pleasant to. If not, he’d do a bunk faster than you could say “train to London paid for by the tax-payer”. Leaving the local barons to rule the roost. See the four men huddled over there? Members of the committee, bound to be. Conspiring against someone, I expect.’

Harry laughed. ‘I’d expect nothing less of political animals.’

‘Believe me, the Tories won’t be the target. In any group of people, the enemy within is always the real danger. The committee may have no time for the Matthew Cullinans of this world, but the people they really hate are the comrades who cross their paths on their own territory.’

‘Why don’t you tell me more?’ Harry asked gently.

She took another sip from her drink. ‘My father was a strong-minded man. He spoke his mind, didn’t care who he upset if he believed he was right. It’s not a recipe for popularity. One fine day, when I was still at school, his manager sacked him. It was a terrible disgrace. Nothing personal, mind. All the bar staff went. Money had gone missing and no-one could prove who had taken it. So the committee decided it was safest to dismiss the whole bunch of them.’

‘Employers still do that.’

‘And it’s no fairer now than it was then,’ Kim said fiercely. ‘My father suffered from that act of cowardice for the rest of his life. Oh, he found other work. He was good at the job, no-one could deny that, and he didn’t mind long hours. But his heart was never in it afterwards. He’d been accused of stealing and nothing could ever be the same again. Even the blow to his pride didn’t hurt as much as the frustration of having done nothing wrong, yet being punished at least as much as the true culprit. Whoever that was.’

‘Agatha Christie called it an ordeal by innocence.’

‘A good way of putting it.’ Kim gave a bleak smile. ‘I

never thought of your beloved Dame Agatha as a social commentator.’

‘She never tried to be. That’s the whole point. But I didn’t mean to distract you. What happened to your father?’

‘They broke him. He had a heart attack when I was sixteen. At least it was a quick end. But he was only fifty-three. Such a waste.’

‘I’m sorry.’

She touched his hand. ‘Ever since then, I’ve felt a kind of personal responsibility to make sure that things are put right.’

‘You feel you owe it to your father?’

‘Exactly - but it’s an impossible task. For every miscarriage that can be rectified, a dozen others pass unnoticed. However hard MOJO tries. And that’s something else I need to put in the balance: even if I take this job in London, what are the chances that I will manage to make any difference? Is it simple vanity that makes me think I can?’

They finished their drinks in silence, while the sound of Gene Pitney drifted across the room. He was singing ‘True Love Never Runs Smooth’.

‘Too right, Gene,’ Harry muttered.

‘Sorry. I didn’t catch that.’

‘Nothing.’ Besides, was what he felt really love? Harry could not be sure; perhaps he should take that as proof that it was not. He cared for Kim, cared deeply. But it was not the same as the love he had felt for Liz. ‘Let me buy you another drink and then we’ll find a seat next door before the show begins.’

As they left, he couldn’t help noticing the latest on the television screen. One of the boxers was sprawled across the canvas; his right eye was closed and blood was leaking from a cut on his temple. The referee had raised the victor’s arm aloft. Someone had switched up the volume and the commentator was talking about another triumph for the champion.

By the time they were settled in the concert room, a compère had appeared on the stage and started cracking politically incorrect jokes that would have had the chic socialists of Hampstead and Islington retching into their vodka and limes. A story about a bad-tempered barmaid and three Irishmen with a speech impediment had even Harry cringing. But the regulars loved it. Especially when the compère confessed that he came from Kirkby. A place so rough, he said, that the first prize in the local pub quiz was an alibi for two for a fortnight. But it was better than Wigan, a parochial town, where a kebab was no more than a meat pie on a stick.

The daughter of one of the committee members made a brief onslaught upon the greatest hits of Shirley Bassey before the Great Timothy was at last introduced. Tim Aldred strode out on to the stage kitted out in top hat and tails and brandishing his wand as if he were conducting at the Last Night of the Proms. The top hat was slightly askew, the jacket carelessly buttoned. Harry’s heart sank: Tim might be able to get away with an act that had been out of date in the fifties when entertaining the Darby and Joans. A Labour Club, even on a charity night, was a different proposition. There was a ripple of applause, but plenty of people in the audience kept talking as Tim started his patter. When he asked for a volunteer, a youth in an ill-fitting suit who had evidently taken advantage of the all-day drinking laws put up his hand. After Tim chose a meek woman with acne to assist him, the drunk started shouting abuse until a heavy in a dicky bow put a menacing hand on his shoulder.

‘Nice suit, young man,’ Tim said. ‘Got it in a car boot sale, did you?’

The youth bellowed something unintelligible. Tim shook his head sadly. ‘Now I’ve heard everything - a dyslexic heckler.’

It began to dawn on Harry that the Great Timothy had little in common with the Tim Aldred he thought he knew. He had a nice line in self-mockery and an unexpectedly quick wit. And he was good, very good, at conjuring. In truth, there was nothing unexpected in the tricks that he performed. Bits of nonsense with playing cards, silk handkerchiefs and a ten-pound note were followed by a sequence in which he invited his helper to bind his wrists with rope and then tie him to a chair. The knots seemed elaborate and impenetrable, but with a shrug of the shoulders he freed himself and took a bow. He sent the woman back to her seat, and then called her back to recover the bracelet which he had discovered inside the crown of his top hat. For a finale, he lay on the stage and covered himself in a huge black cloak. A drum rolled and gradually it seemed that he was levitating above the ground.

By now, the audience’s chatter had died away. Even the drunk was quiet. When the Great Timothy landed back on terra firma, shrugged off the cloak and took a bow, the applause was hearty and prolonged. As the curtain fell, Harry turned to look at Kim. To his surprise, her brow was furrowed.

‘Penny for them.’

She started guiltily. ‘Oh, it’s nothing. Nothing.’

Disco lights began to flash and the thud of dance music echoed around the room. He said, ‘Shall we escape next door?’

‘Good idea.’

‘So what did you think of the Great Timothy?’ he asked after he had replenished their glasses.

‘I recognise him from somewhere. It will bug me until I remember.’

‘Let me know when it comes back to you. In the meantime, how do you rate his act?’

‘Fun,’ she said. ‘Simple stuff compared to the illusions you see on the box, but he put it over well.’

Harry nodded. ‘“It’s the way you tell ’em.” I must admit I hadn’t expected him to be such an accomplished performer. I couldn’t help thinking back to when I was a kid. Magic fascinated me. I seem to remember that at the age of nine, it was my ambition to become a conjuror.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously. My parents even bought me a magic set. As I recall, it contained a simple version of the rope trick Tim performed. Trouble was, I kept forgetting to make sure that the cord went the right way around my wrists. Result: I was trussed up without a hope of making an escape. Houdini must have been spinning in his grave.’

She laughed. ‘So you decided on mature reflection to concentrate your efforts on hocus-pocus in the Liverpool magistrates’?’

‘The only spells they understand involve a couple of years inside. Ah, here’s the Great Timothy in person! Good to see you. This is Kim Lawrence. Kim, meet the star of tonight’s show.’

Tim Aldred smiled. ‘Enjoy it?’

‘Wonderful. You’re wasted at children’s parties.’

‘You think so? I promise you, compared to a dozen eight-year-olds, performing in front of this lot is child’s play. All the same, a pint of bitter will do no harm.’

‘I haven’t been to a magic show since I was a kid,’ Kim said after Harry returned from the bar. ‘And I loved it.’

Tim nodded. A dreamy look came into his eyes. ‘I got the bug myself when I was nine or ten. A boy I knew had a birthday party with an old man pulling rabbits out of a hat. The whole class was invited. Most of the lads weren’t impressed; television had spoiled them. But I was entranced and went straight to the local library so I could borrow every book they had on magic. I felt that if I kept people entertained, they would accept me. I learned to play the piano as well. Same reason. Sounds pathetic, I realise that, but I’d always been a bit of a loner, an odd one out. Still am, I suppose.’

‘You’ve always worked in show business?’ she asked.

‘Heavens, that’s too glamorous a name for it. And the answer is no. Perhaps I lacked the courage of my convictions. I let my mother persuade me that I needed a proper job. The only time in my life I didn’t do as she said was when I married young. Of course, I should have listened to Mum. Soon I had not only a wife, but two little girls and a mortgage to cope with. I spent too long working for a firm of ship repairers before I saw the light.’

‘You gave up your job?’

‘It gave me up,’ he said uneasily. ‘Fewer vessels on the river; those that remained were better built, less in need of our services. I finished up on the dole. By then my wife had long since run off with someone she worked with, and taken our daughters down to Slough with her fancy man. And my mother had died.’ He paused, as if casting his mind back to the past. ‘Eventually, I realised that for the first time in my life, I was able to please myself. So I became a magician and occasional pub pianist. And I love it, believe me, I love it.’

Kim said, ‘One thing has been bothering me all evening. Have you and I ever met before?’

Tim studied her face, as if seeing her for the first time. ‘I’m sure I would have remembered,’ he said. No question, Harry thought. His smile was anxious.

‘It’s only that… oh, never mind.’

‘I’m a very ordinary-looking chap,’ he said. ‘I expect you’ve confused me with someone else. Anyway, I’m glad that the two of you were able to make it. Thanks for coming.’

Harry said, ‘At least tonight we don’t have to plough through a pile of minutes or discuss the latest appeals for funds.’

‘Thank God. It can be wearisome.’

‘And Luke worked so hard on behalf of the Trust, his suicide is bound to throw an additional burden on the remaining trustees.’ Harry paused. ‘I suppose it was suicide?’

Tim started. ‘What do you mean? You think it was an accident?’

‘Not necessarily. As you demonstrated on stage, appearances can be deceptive.’

‘That was entirely different. Personally, I’ve always thought that Luke killed himself.’

‘But why? He was a successful man. Well-respected, in good health as far as anyone knew, not short of money. His death is inexplicable.’

Tim shrugged. ‘Inexplicable things happen all the time. As for the Trust, well, Luke’s death is a serious blow. But thank God we have Frances Silverwood. She’s as sound as Luke - and a marvellous person. We’re lucky to have her.’

‘I agree. And then there’s Matthew Cullinan.’

‘I’m sure he’s very capable,’ Tim said stiffly. ‘But I must say - this is just between you and me - I find him rather patronising.’

‘I don’t expect Roy will allow him to get on his high horse too often. He has a flair for bringing people like that down to size.’ When Tim grunted in response, Harry added quickly, ‘Don’t you agree?’

‘I must be honest with you. As far as I’m concerned, Frances and Luke have been carrying the Trust for a long time. Frankly, Roy couldn’t care less about managing the investments or checking out applications for funding. It takes up too much valuable drinking time. Besides, it’s not his money, so he’s not bothered. We’d be bankrupt tomorrow if it were left to him. In fact, as far as I can see, we are close to the precipice right now.’ He leaned forward. ‘I think it’s time for a few hard questions to be put to our so-called treasurer. Gervase Kavanaugh endowed the Trust generously. Charles was always supportive. What I’d like to know is: where did all the money go?’

Harry said quietly, ‘Where do you think it went?’

‘How should I know? I’m no accountant.’ Tim hesitated. ‘But as you found out yourself the other day, I take a professional interest in the watches people wear. Look, Harry. I know you act for Roy Milburn and I don’t expect you to comment on this. But you might like to ask yourself one thing. Your client spends half his time in an alcoholic haze and isn’t exactly a high earner. So how did he afford the new Rolex he was wearing at Luke’s funeral?’

Chapter 11

By noon the next day, Harry was starting to think that he too qualified for membership of the Magic Circle. Roy Milburn had been banned from driving, but his fine had been affordable and, even though this was his second over-the-limit offence, there had been no prison sentence. Inside the courtroom, Roy had been neat and respectable in his wool and polyester suit - nothing too flash - and had bowed his head in remorse as the prosecution recounted his misdeeds. No-one but himself had been hurt in the crash and he was the very model of a sadder and wiser man. Harry’s plea in mitigation had gone like a dream. It was a great escape: the heroes of Colditz would have been envious.

Once they were outside the court building, Roy punched the air and let out a roar of delight. Davey Damnation paused in the middle of a diatribe about Jezebel seducing her servants to commit fornication and pointed a bony finger.

‘And when the thousand years are expired, Satan shall be loosed out of his prison!’

‘What about time off for bad behaviour?’ Roy asked cheerily.

The brimstone and treacle man glared at him and moved forward, arms aloft, as if to strike a blow. But Roy simply whooped with laughter and tossed a twenty-pound note into Davey’s upturned hat, threw an arm around Harry’s shoulder and began to limp along the street.

‘We must celebrate! Come on, I won’t take no for an answer.’

Harry glanced back at Davey. He still had half a mind to try to talk to the man, to see if he could get any sense out of him and perhaps put his mind at rest by proving to himself that Davey could not be the Scissorman. But Roy was not to be denied. ‘That’s very kind.’

‘Not a bit of it. Let’s push the boat out. Slap-up meal, champagne, the whole works. It’s the least you deserve. You had them eating out of your hand by the end. Another five minutes and you’d have been demanding compensation for false arrest. Where would you like to go? Believe me, money’s no object. Take your pick.’

An idea occurred to him. ‘I’ve heard the lunches are good at the Hawthorne Hotel. And it’s handy for the office. Would that suit you?’

Roy paused. ‘Odd choice. In view of - recent tragic events.’

‘You’re thinking of Luke’s death? Of course, if you’d rather try somewhere different, I’ll understand.’

He looked directly at his client, as if to emphasise that he’d thrown down a gauntlet. Roy squared his shoulders and picked it up. ‘No, no. If that’s what you prefer, then it’s fine by me.’

They set off in the direction of the river and the Hawthorne. It had begun to drizzle and for a few minutes, neither of them spoke, but as they turned into James Street, Harry blinked the rain out of his eyes and said, ‘It still seems hard to credit that Luke is dead - and in such circumstances.’

‘I agree. When Frances phoned me with the news, I thought it was a leg-pull. But then she broke down in tears and I realised that she was telling me the truth. Luke really had committed suicide.’

‘But why? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘You’re a lawyer,’ Roy said. ‘You make a living out of things that don’t make sense. Why did I jump into that car when I knew I’d had a skinful? I’ve asked myself the question a hundred times since that night. The chairman of the bench was right. I could have killed someone. I damn nearly killed myself and don’t I know it? The pain from this bloody leg can be excruciating sometimes. But people aren’t logical, Harry. That’s the top and bottom of it.’

‘In most cases, I’d agree with you. With Luke, though, it was different. He’s the last person I would ever…’

‘Isn’t that so often the way?’ Roy interrupted. ‘Where others are concerned, we spend so much of our lives pretending to be something we aren’t. Luke wore a mask like the rest of us. Deep down, he was obviously as mixed up as you and me. Ah, here we are. The scene of the crime.’

‘Suicide hasn’t been a crime for years,’ Harry said mildly.

Roy flapped a hand dismissively. ‘Figure of speech. God, you lawyers are so literal. You ought to relax more. A glass or two of bubbly is just what you need. And incidentally, do you know why sharks don’t eat lawyers? Professional courtesy.’

The Hawthorne stood on the Strand, facing out towards the landing stage. A national chain had bought it eighteen months earlier and spent a good deal of money in transforming it into a Mecca for tourists who paid in dollars or by American Express. Harry and Roy passed through revolving doors into a vast and thickly carpeted foyer. In the centre was a pedestal bearing a bust of Nathaniel Hawthorne; a placard beneath it explained that the author of The Scarlet Letter had been American Consul in Liverpool in the 1850s and had occupied an office a stone’s throw away. From discreetly hidden speakers came the strains of ‘Rhapsody in Blue’. A couple of impossibly pretty girls behind the reception desk were urging guests checking out to have a nice day.

Harry gazed in wonder at the elaborate chandeliers suspended above them. ‘Last time I came here, I was a trainee solicitor. In those days, it was a specialist conference centre and we were attending a course on accounts. Dullest day I spent in my entire life. I couldn’t help remembering that in the eighteenth century the Goree Piazzas were around the corner.’

Roy furrowed his brow. ‘Weren’t they the old warehouses used for the colonial trade?’

‘That’s right. I’ve heard it said that slaves used to be bought and sold there. And when I was starting out in the law and signed up to articles of clerkship with Maher and Malcolm, I used to think I had a lot in common with those poor souls.’

Roy laughed. ‘Well, now, what’s it to be? I see that a bunch of sales reps have taken over the Eleanor Roosevelt Suite, but never mind. Would you like a drink first at the Herman Melville Bar or straight into Washington Irving Restaurant?’

‘Let’s eat.’

‘Fine. Only one condition: no hamburgers.’

Half an hour later they were both washing down the best salmon steak Harry had tasted in years with another glass of champagne: his second, Roy’s fourth. Their conversation had been light and jokey and Harry rounded it off with an account of Tim’s magic show at the Labour Club.

‘So you were impressed?’ Roy gave a disbelieving guffaw. ‘I’d always imagined he would be hopeless. Getting tied up with his own rope tricks, that sort of thing. I even sympathise with that prat Matthew Cullinan when he gets pissed off with poor old Tim.’

‘Do I gather you’re not a fan of Matthew?’

Roy pulled a face. ‘Recruiting Matthew was the Dinosaur’s attempt to turn the Trust into a slicker operation. He needn’t have bothered. I’ve not seen any evidence yet of Matthew’s marvellous financial acumen, have you?’

‘Do you and he discuss investment policy together?’

‘Our discussions about money mainly consist of Matthew telling me that the stuff we thought was blue-chip is really a load of crap.’ Roy put down his knife and fork. ‘You’re asking a lot of questions about the Trust, Harry. I thought your partner was the man with the eye for detail. I can’t believe you find us such fascinating clients.’

‘If you knew my other clients, you wouldn’t be so sure. I’m sorry to be nosey, but I am interested. Luke’s death startled me. I’ve begun to realise that I hardly knew him.’

Roy shrugged. ‘Let’s face it. He may have had many admirable qualities, but being a warm lovable human being wasn’t one of them. Frances Silverwood would disagree, of course. So would Ashley Whitaker. But even though I’ve known the Dinosaur since I was a student, I’ve always found him as difficult to read as a novel in Chinese.’

‘I never realised the two of you go back a long way.’

‘Oh yes, I first met him when Ashley and I were at university together. Must be well over ten years ago.’

‘When I was a student, I never got to know the godparents of my pals.’

‘You’re forgetting that Luke and Mrs Whitaker used to be an item. They may have married other people, but they always kept in close touch. With Ashley’s father and Luke’s wife both dead, they saw even more of each other. So, if you were in touch with the Whitakers, you couldn’t fail to meet the dear old Dinosaur. I met him when Ashley invited me back to his home during the summer break. I didn’t much care for him, to be honest. Too starchy.’

‘You and Ashley don’t seem to have much in common. Yet you’ve remained friends.’

Roy gave a lazy smile. ‘Sort of. You might say Fate brought us together - blood brothers, you might say. And he did finish up with my ex-girlfriend.’

‘You were involved with Melissa?’

Roy winked. ‘For a time, yes.’

‘And there wasn’t a rift between you when Ashley married her?’

‘Far from it.’ Roy grinned. ‘Easy come, easy go.’

‘Most men in your shoes wouldn’t have been so philosophical.’

‘It was no big deal. Mind you, Melissa had everything: good looks, money, charm. But I told you before, she was as neurotic as hell - and she always kept her legs tightly closed. She told me she was determined to keep her virginity until her wedding night, would you believe? So I didn’t have much fun. In the end I started to get bored and look elsewhere. Whereas Ashley was crazy about her from the start. Besotted. Truly, I think he is to this very day.’

‘Happy marriages are rare,’ Harry said, with feeling.

‘Depends on your idea of happiness, doesn’t it? She liked to have him dangling on a string, but even so, his conscience troubled him because he thought of her as my girl. I told him not to be so bloody stupid, there were plenty more fish in the sea.’

Roy laughed. Harry knew that his client had once been briefly married, to a woman he’d met in a night club. Since then Roy had preferred to have no ties. The one-night stands which Harry found so unsatisfying were still meat and drink to him. ‘Besides, her father was a tough cookie. He ordered Melissa to end our relationship - and she was quite prepared to obey him. A real daddy’s girl. My attitude was - rather Ashley than me.’

‘I don’t think he’s complaining.’

‘Oh sure,’ Roy said lazily. ‘And don’t be fooled by that vague manner of his. Take it from me, he was always at least as horny as yours truly - but he always tended to fantasise rather than do anything about it. Not like me at all in that respect. I suppose you could say he’s much more patient. Married to Melissa, I bet he’s had to be.’

‘Tell me more about Luke. Did he ever live with Mrs Whitaker?’

Roy shook his head. ‘Not likely. You knew the Dinosaur. Talk about Victorian values - but he was more strait-laced than most Victorians, if you ask me. He was just as bad as Melissa, he never subscribed to the permissive society. He would never have countenanced living in sin. Not even with Mrs Whitaker, much as he cared for her.’

‘Why didn’t they marry?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. My bet is that she wouldn’t have been averse to tying the knot again. She’d been devoted to Ashley’s father, but after a decent interval there was no reason why she shouldn’t try to find happiness elsewhere. The Dinosaur was a handsome devil in those days. She was a shade on the plump side, maybe, but that’s not the end of the world, is it?’ He grinned. ‘As a matter of fact, I quite fancied her myself. I was going through an older-woman phase at the time. Thank God it wore off, otherwise, I’d be necking with pensioners whilst I was still in my prime.’

The waiter took their orders for dessert and Harry found himself unable to resist a Rip Van Winkle mousse. In the conversational lull, an outlandish idea occurred to him.

‘I must admit I’m intrigued by the tie-up between Luke and Ashley. Frankly, if either of my godfathers was sitting in this restaurant, I wouldn’t recognise him. Yet Luke and Ashley saw a great deal of each other. I was wondering if the relationship might have been closer than anyone ever admitted. Is it possible’ - he paused - ‘is it possible that Luke was Ashley’s father?’

Roy stared at him. ‘Now you really are in the land of make-believe. Whatever gave you that idea?’

‘Just a thought. Do I gather that you’re not convinced? I realise there is no physical resemblance…’

‘Whereas, to judge from one or two photographs I’ve seen over the years, Ashley is the spitting image of his dad.’

‘Maybe I’m wrong, then.’

Roy grinned. ‘Detective fever. You’re trying to solve a puzzle that doesn’t exist. Luke carried a torch for Ashley’s mum. He became genuinely fond of his godson. Their friendship was strong enough to survive the death of Mrs Whitaker. My guess is that, if anything, it brought them together. The Dinosaur found it hard to get close to people. Maybe he leaned on Ashley more than any of us realised.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I don’t suppose it’s a coincidence that when Luke finally snapped, Ashley was in Canada.’

‘You’re suggesting that if Ashley had been here, the Dinosaur might have told him about whatever was on his mind?’

‘As you hinted a moment ago, Ashley was his natural confidant. If Luke had been able to talk with him, maybe the outcome might have been different.’ Roy smiled. ‘But don’t tell Ashley I said that. He’s got enough on his mind as it is. No need to burden him with guilt for the death of his godfather.’

‘I still don’t understand why Luke should want to kill himself.’

‘Neither does Ashley, so far as I can gather.’ Roy yawned. ‘If you two mystery buffs are baffled, what chance is there for the rest of us to fathom it?’

Harry said, ‘Do you think it could have been trouble within the Kavanaugh Trust that drove Luke to suicide?’

Roy was scornful. ‘For God’s sake. Now you are letting your imagination run away with you. Okay, Luke cared more about the Trust than the rest of us. In my case, frankly, that wasn’t difficult. And the Trust is on its uppers. The Charles Kavanaugh bequest would have been a godsend, but Vera has put her spanner in the works.’

Harry leaned forward. ‘So as far as you are concerned, the Trust had no connection at all with his death?’

‘Of course not. How could it have?’

‘Then why do you think he killed himself?’

‘Like I said, I don’t have a neat and tidy answer. Life’s messy; so is death. Very different from the books that you and Ashley devour.’

‘I suppose - you are sure it was suicide?’

Roy gave him a shocked stare for a moment before rocking back in his chair and starting to roar with laughter. ‘Now I’m certain you have been reading too many mysteries. What’s bugging you, Harry? Do you think Tim bumped the Dinosaur off so that he could try his luck with Frances? How much champagne have you drunk?’

‘Too much, I expect. Shall we order coffee?’

‘I could do with some. But why don’t you come round to my eyrie to drink it? I only live just around the corner. Have a look at my studio.’

‘I suppose I really ought to be getting back to work…’

‘Forget it. Come on, you’ll be billing me an arm and a leg anyway. You can afford to take a little time off after such a famous victory.’

‘About your bill,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve put in a good deal of time on this case.’

‘No problem,’ Roy said expansively. ‘I’m quite flush at the moment. Forget what I said originally about giving me a discount. I’m happy to pay top dollar. You deserve it after today. Hang on a moment while I settle up, then we’ll walk to the flat.’

Whilst he was waiting, Harry mooched around the reception area. Glancing through the door into the Herman Melville Bar, he noticed Don Ragovoy talking to a young man who was polishing glasses, the one who had accompanied him to Luke’s funeral. Then out of the corner of his eye he spotted a small swarthy man in a porter’s uniform carrying a couple of heavy suitcases. The badge on the man’s lapel said Julio. Moving as swiftly, for once, as in his footballing days, Harry intercepted the porter on his way to the goods lift.

‘Excuse me. I believe you spoke to a friend of mine, a Mr Whitaker, about the man who died here recently - Luke Dessaur.’

The man gave him a sullen look. ‘Listen, mister, I don’t want any more trouble. I had the police round asking questions after your friend came here.’

‘There’s not going to be any trouble. You gave my friend a lot of help. I simply wonder if you can remember anything else about the argument you overheard.’

The man shook his head vigorously. ‘Not a thing, mister. Not a thing.’

‘Was it a woman in Mr Dessaur’s room or another man?’

‘Listen, I tell your friend, I dunno.’

‘What time was it?’

‘I dunno. Just before eleven, maybe.’

‘Not later?’

‘It was plenty late enough. I was dog tired.’

‘You weren’t the porter who found the body, were you?’

‘No, that was my pal. He was on the eleven to seven shift that night. Now look, mister, these bags are heavy.’

Harry flourished a couple of notes from his wallet in the hope of refreshing the man’s memory. But it was no use. In his haste to be off, Julio even forgot to tell Harry to have a nice day.

Roy returned. ‘You all right?’

Harry hesitated. He was trying to work out timings. The argument Julio had overheard had taken place before Luke tried to phone Ashley in Canada and about an hour and a half before his death. So what was its significance? ‘Yes - yes, of course. Shall we go?’

A couple of minutes later Roy steered him round the corner from Water Street into India Court and pointed at a building on the left-hand side. ‘There it is.’

He stared. Roy was indicating a boarded-up shop that had once sold discount office equipment. Crusoe and Devlin had once invested in a couple of their filing cabinets but within a fortnight the drawers had become stuck. Although the prospect of having his most intractable case files entombed forever had appealed to Harry, Jim had decreed that future purchases would be made from more reliable suppliers. Presumably other customers had taken similar decisions, resulting in the sad note on the bolted front door that any enquiries about the business should be addressed to its duly appointed receivers.

‘I don’t see any sign…’

Roy smiled and, producing a hefty bundle of keys, unlocked the padlock on a gate at the side of the disused store. They went down an alley to a back door and Roy opened up.

The place was dark, with a faint musty smell. They were surrounded by wobbly typists’ chairs, battered knee-hole

desks and other oddments of ergonomically incorrect office furniture.

‘There’s no place like home,’ he said.

‘So where is your studio?’

‘Follow me.’

Roy directed him through into the back and towards a narrow staircase. ‘I hope you’re fit. There were lifts for goods and customers, but both of them have been condemned by the health and safety people. It’s either this or the outside fire escape and that’s a death trap after overnight rain.’

He led Harry up six flights. By the time they reached the top Harry was gasping for breath and Roy’s features were creased with pain. ‘Out of condition?’ he gasped. ‘The exercise will do you good. Imagine how it feels with a dodgy leg.’

Harry looked around. They were standing on a small landing. In front of him were three large and solid doors. A strange clicking and hissing emanated from behind the one in the middle. Roy nodded at each of them and said, ‘The lift motor room. The tank room - hence the background music. And my front door. Come in.’

Harry followed Roy inside and along a long narrow passageway, at the end of which was a door which opened into a small sitting-room-cum-studio. The floor was covered with hessian matting and there was a stale whiff of Indian cooking in the air. The walls were festooned with the originals of cartoons that Roy had drawn. There was, Harry thought suddenly, a cruel streak in Roy that came out in his work. He had the skill to capture character with a few sharp strokes of the pen and the most acute images were always the most savage. A prominent councillor with two faces, an inarticulate soccer star with his boot in his mouth. There was a sketch book on the table and Harry began to leaf through it. The picture on the first page startled him. It showed a rabbit looking disgusted to have pulled a goggle-eyed Tim Aldred out of a hat.

He turned over. There was the honourable Matthew Cullinan naked except for a nappy and sucking a silver spoon. Next page: Frances Silverwood cuddling a shrunken head in her arms as if it were a new-born babe.

‘Have you met Uncle Joe?’ Roy asked. He’d come back into the room so quietly that Harry started and hurriedly put the book down on top of a little grey filing cabinet in the corner. ‘Yes, I can tell from your expression that you have. Naughty of me, I suppose. Most women in search of a child-substitute choose a pet. Frances is the only one I know who mollycoddles a shrunken head. Weird, or what?’

‘Sorry. Being nosey.’

‘I suppose I shouldn’t mind my brief knowing my secret vices.’ He gave a wolfish grin. ‘Though knowledge is power, isn’t it? That’s always been my motto. But I’ve got so many guilty secrets that if one or two of the little ones are found out, it doesn’t matter much. There are plenty more in that cabinet. Only snag is, the bloody drawers are almost impossible to open.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Harry said, glad to relieve his embarrassment by changing the subject. ‘The cowboy who used to work downstairs sold me a couple of them.’

Roy grinned. ‘Good old Donal. Consistent only in his total lack of reliability. I wonder what he’s up to now?’

‘You knew him?’ Donal was the young salesman who had seemed to be in charge here. A dark-haired fellow with the gift of the gab.

‘An old pal of mine - and the reason I’m here. He was managing the shop for some rogue from Belfast. This is supposed to be a caretaker’s flat, but Donal thought up a cunning plan. He lived out at Aigburth, but he would install me here and save on expenditure. I could save money too and the place was ideal as a studio. Ever since my bloody ex took our house, I’ve rented rather than bought, but the dump I was living in was costing an arm and a leg at a time when I was desperate for cash. When the shop went kaput, Donal pissed off back to Ireland, owing money to half of Liverpool. I did a deal with the receivers. They like saving money too. Rather than try and evict me, they agreed that I could stay here for the time being, provided I kept an eye on security. So I’m still here.’

‘And doing well on it, judging by the cost of the lunch we’ve just had. You’ve come into money lately, then?’

Roy tapped the side of his nose. ‘Ask no questions and you’ll hear no lies. Now, how about taking a look outside?’

He opened the double windows and they went on to the roof of the building. The wind was roaring in from the river, much fiercer up here than at street level. He turned round slowly, absorbing the scene. A low railing ran around the perimeter of the rooftop, enclosing an area that combined terracotta pots containing hardy green and yellow plants with boiler flues, lengths of hose and black rolled steel joists for window cleaners’ cradles. On the street side, a flagpole reached up into the sky. Roy saw him looking at it and laughed.

‘I’m tempted to run up the skull and crossbones. One of these days, maybe.’

Harry could see the river through a gap in the buildings that edged the Strand. One of the rooftops must belong to the Hawthorne. Suppose Luke had discovered that Roy was embezzling from the Trust. Might he have booked in to the hotel because it was convenient to meet Roy there after the meeting at the Piquet Club? He walked over to the edge to look at the tiny figures on the ground. As he gazed down, he began to feel dizzy. He took a step back and wondered if it had been like this for Luke. What it would feel like, to look down upon the ground from the hotel window and know that within moments one’s body would be lying on it? And there was still the old question: did he jump or was he pushed?

‘You look miles away,’ Roy said softly.

He turned back to face his client. ‘Sorry, it’s nothing. I just remembered I’m going to see Vertigo tomorrow night.’

Chapter 12

Matthew Cullinan and Inge Frontzeck shared a flat in a four-storey neo-Georgian block which looked out over the River Dee. The cars parked in the courtyard were Alfas and BMWs; blue, white and yellow winter pansies cascaded from vast hanging baskets beside the main door. A discreet sign next to the entry phone informed Harry that the occupants of the block did not welcome free newspapers or unsolicited callers and that they were active members of a neighbourhood watch security scheme.

The Jericho Lane Labour Club was only half an hour’s drive away, but it belonged to a different world in which he was much more at home. He felt rather like a pub singer who has wandered by mistake on to the stage at Glyndebourne. As he rang the bell marked with the name of his hosts, he conquered with difficulty the urge to make a face at the closed circuit television cameras mounted on the courtyard walls.

Inge directed him to take the lift to the top floor and buzzed him in. When she opened their front door to him, he presented her with a bouquet of flowers.

‘You’re so kind,’ she said.

As she touched his cheek with her lips, he felt her breasts press against him for a moment and for the first time found himself seized by envy of the Honourable Matthew Cullinan. He had no regrets about the lack of blue blood in his veins and the world of financial consultancy held as much appeal for him as a spell in Strangeways. But the warmth of Inge’s body as, without a thought, she gave her social greeting reminded him that he had been celibate for too long.

She led him into an L-shaped living-room stuffed with more antiques than the Lady Lever Art Gallery. Vivaldi was playing on a Scandinavian sound system that reminded him of something out of Star Trek. A Persian rug was stretched across the floor and he guessed it must have cost a fortune.

Not a place to be sick on the carpet, he told himself.

On the mantelpiece were half a dozen framed photographs showing Inge at various stages of her life since childhood. She had been a shy little girl and a dumpy teenager. Only in the most recent picture was she smiling: it had been taken in front of a snow-laden ski lodge where she was gazing into Matthew’s eyes.

Her boyfriend was standing next to a cocktail cabinet in the shape of a huge globe, checking the labels of a couple of bottles. Harry uttered a silent prayer that Matthew would not ask him which particular vintage he favoured. His host moved forward, hand outstretched. ‘Grand to see you. Can I offer you a glass of champagne?’

‘I ought to say no,’ Harry said. ‘I was on the Moët at lunch-time.’

‘My God. It’s a tough life being a Liverpool solicitor, eh?’

‘Special occasion. I was with Roy Milburn.’

‘Of course, I’d forgotten. Court case went well, did it? I rather gained the impression that if you kept him out of the nick, you’d be achieving a minor miracle.’

‘Some you win, some you lose. But I’ve learned a lesson from him and come over here in a cab. So - pour away.’

As Matthew opened a bottle of Bollinger, he said, ‘I don’t want to talk shop, but I must be honest with you. Sometimes I worry about Roy.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Here, good health. Well, it’s a question of reliability, I suppose. I do wonder whether Roy’s the ideal man for the treasurer’s job.’

A masterpiece of understatement, Harry thought. ‘He only took the job on as a favour because the trustees couldn’t find anyone else and he’d once trained as an accountant.’

‘I gather he flunked his exams. Hardly reassuring. I’m not sure how close an eye he keeps on the Trust’s finances. I don’t pretend to have gone through them with a fine-tooth comb, but they seem in a pretty parlous state to me. Luke once said that when Roy was appointed, the Trust was not simply in the black but in a very healthy state indeed.’ Matthew shook his head. ‘I’m not convinced that the management of our investments has been sound, so I have tried to make a number of changes for the better. Of course, I’m the new boy on the board, but I can’t stand idly by while the whole shooting match falls apart.’

Harry sipped his champagne. He was beginning to understand why he had been invited, although he still could not quite reconcile the way Matthew talked with his reputation as a low-profile do-gooder. ‘Did you discuss your concerns with Luke?’

‘I may have mentioned them in passing.’

I bet. ‘And what was his response?’

Matthew paused and Harry sensed that his host was measuring his words with care. One thing was clear: this meant more to him than a bit of casual, bitchy gossip. ‘He said very little. Just between you and me, I felt my remarks didn’t come as a complete surprise. But now we will never know what was in his mind. Oh well, Roy is your client. I don’t want to embroil you in a conflict of interests. I simply feel that I owe it to Luke to do what I can to protect the Trust’s interests.’

‘How did you feel when you heard of his death?’

Matthew spread his arms. ‘Bolt from the blue, wasn’t it? Couldn’t believe it at first. He simply didn’t seem the type for suicide.’

Harry was about to ask whether there really was such a type when the doorbell rang and Inge called out from the kitchen. ‘Darling, will you get it?’

‘Right-ho.’ Matthew winked at Harry. ‘Our other guest. You’ll have to excuse me.’

‘Yes, of course. Sorry, I didn’t realise anyone else was expected.’

Matthew gave a mischievous grin and ambled out to the hall. Harry heard the door open and words of welcome exchanged before Matthew ushered the new arrival into the room.

‘Harry! How lovely to see you again.’

Juliet May had exchanged her working clothes for a strapless evening gown which so emphasised her curves that it was difficult not to stare. The way she smiled at the sight of him made it clear that his presence here was not unexpected. That puzzled him, but he felt an irrational burst of pleasure at seeing her again that outweighed even the fear that she intended to spend the evening in urging on him the vital need for Crusoe and Devlin to smarten up their image. As Inge had done, she brushed his cheek with a kiss and he told himself that perhaps he had underestimated the virtues of middle-class customs.

‘I never knew you were a friend of Matthew’s,’ he said.

‘Oh, I love nothing better than hobnobbing with the aristocracy. But as a matter of fact, I met Matthew through Inge. The firm I used to work for had a contract with her father’s company and when I set up on my own, she was kind enough to ask me to help her out with marketing her catering business.’

Inge came into the room and exchanged cheek-pecks with Juliet. All very different from the earthy familiarity of Jericho Lane. ‘Darling, you look terrific. As always. You’ve already met Harry, I believe.’

‘That’s right. Didn’t you tell him that I’d been asked along to make up the four? I saw the way his jaw dropped when I walked through the door. I thought he might try to make a run for it before I could persuade him to put on a seminar for his clients on cutting the cost of litigation.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ Harry said. ‘We don’t want to give them any ideas like that.’

‘An honest solicitor,’ Juliet told Inge. ‘A rare creature.’

‘Quite a challenge for you,’ Matthew said. ‘Glass of bubbly, Juliet? Let me top you up, Harry.’

‘Thanks.’ Juliet turned to Harry. ‘Please don’t get the wrong idea. This evening is for pleasure, not business. I’m really not going to spoil it by making a pitch for the Crusoe and Devlin contract.’

‘You make it sound like a major exercise in competitive tendering,’ he said. ‘Truth is, we’ve never gone further than putting an advertisement for divorce work in all the local papers the first week in January. When families come together for the season of goodwill, we’re guaranteed an increase in business.’

‘I think our legs are being pulled,’ Matthew said. ‘Seriously, Harry, you could pick up a spot of useful free advice tonight. Lawyers need to promote themselves these days, same as soap powder salesmen. The people I use have a marketing budget equal to five per cent of turnover. They pay a good deal

of attention to areas in which Juliet has expertise. Like relationship marketing.’

Juliet giggled at Harry’s evident bewilderment. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t go round encouraging people to have affairs in order to increase demand for legal services. It’s a question of targeting clients who have other solicitors, obtaining initial instructions from them, perhaps on a single project, and then seeking to earn their loyalty over a period of time, becoming their regular retained lawyers.’

‘That’s nothing new so far as criminal advocates are concerned. We’ve been touting recidivists for business since the Krays were first put on probation.’

She smiled. ‘I suspect I might not be able to teach you as much as Matthew would have you believe. Even if your tongue was slightly in your cheek, the divorce idea is fine. Identifying the clients’ needs, that’s the idea. I must remember to give you a ring next New Year’s Day, when Casper and I are coming to blows after I’ve had a week’s exposure to his parents, his brother and sister and their appalling kids whilst he’s spent most of the time on the fax to New York.’

‘Oh yes, Jim Crusoe told me you were married to Casper May.’

She giggled again. ‘It’s a mixed blessing being married to someone so…’

‘Notorious?’ Matthew suggested drily.

‘That’s probably as good a description as any,’ Juliet said with a rueful smile. ‘I take it you’ve heard of my husband, Harry?’

Harry nodded: when in doubt, say nowt. In his twenties, Casper May had been one of the city’s most feared loan sharks. His methods of persuading his debtors to pay him what he thought was due had attracted the attention of the police more than once. He had then diversified into the security business. Liverpool abounded with rumours that his technique for winning new business owed less to keen pricing than fear that to turn him down would result in unexplained break-ins or arson attacks within days rather than weeks. In recent years he had been keen to clean up his image and nowadays he was fêted by the local press for his highly visible work for charity. He was a highly effective fund-raiser. Even if the grievous bodily harm days were over, when Casper May asked you to make a donation to a good cause, you checked out your insurance before saying no.

‘Where did you say he was at present?’ Inge asked.

‘In Florida with the general manager of one of his disability charities. Why is it I suspect she’s blonde with long legs?’ Her smile did not diminish the sting of her words. ‘I happened to mention to Inge yesterday evening that I would be at a loose end tonight and she was kind enough to invite me over here.’

Harry caught an exchange of looks between Inge and Juliet, but found it impossible to interpret them. Inge said, ‘I hope you don’t mind, Harry, but when Juliet told me she had actually met you the other day, it seemed a perfect opportunity to have you both along.’

‘I’m glad Fate has brought us together again.’

‘Do you believe in Fate?’ Juliet asked.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Juliet reads the Tarot,’ Matthew explained. ‘I must admit it’s not my cup of tea, but Inge swears by it.’

He gave his girlfriend a contented smile. His expression was no doubt meant to seem affectionate, but Harry thought he sensed something hidden beneath the surface. What did it remind him of? Perhaps the sly glance a hardened criminal might give to an inexperienced defence lawyer, whom he would string along simply because he needed his help. Very odd. Perhaps he was imagining it. Certainly, Inge seemed unaware that anything might be wrong. Her eyes were bright; Hal David might have been thinking about her when he wrote his lyric about the look of love.

‘Are you interested in the Tarot, Harry?’ Juliet asked.

Jerked out of his reverie, he said, ‘I know nothing about it. But any help with my lottery numbers would be more than welcome.’

She leaned forward and rested her hand on his arm. ‘Please don’t think it’s simply a load of nonsense. I’d be happy to give you a reading if you’re interested. I’ve met a good many people who have had their lives changed as a result of a Tarot reading.’

‘That’s exactly what terrifies me.’

She removed the pressure of her hand. ‘I promise you, the Tarot is much misunderstood. Even by intelligent people. I gave a reading to a friend only the other day and turned up the Death card. My friend was terribly upset and yet there was no need. The card can have different meanings.’

‘All the same, perhaps I’ll give it a miss tonight, if you don’t mind.’

Inge said, ‘You should change your mind, Harry. But now it’s time to eat. Would you like to come into the dining-room?’

The food was predictably superb and as the alcohol continued to flow freely, Harry realised to his surprise that he was thoroughly enjoying himself. Inge was an accomplished hostess as well as cook and had an unexpectedly sly wit. Matthew was content to treat her to that amiable, superficial beam and keep refilling the glasses; Harry noticed that Juliet’s needed replenishing at least as often as his, and he wasn’t in the mood to be abstemious. There was no sign that the drink was having any noticeable effect on her, but she was funny and voluble, coming out with a string of entertaining stories about people who had embarked on elaborate public relations exercises only to get their comeuppance in embarrassing fashion. Harry listened idly to the anecdotes, but paid more attention to the look of her in the glow of the candle-light. Once she cast a quick glance in his direction and caught him studying her figure. He moved his eyes quickly in the direction of Inge, but not before he’d noticed the glimmer of a smile on Juliet’s lips. A few minutes later, he felt the toes of a stockinged foot brush against his leg. He turned towards Juliet and this time returned her smile.

He had almost forgotten the reason why he had agreed to come here in the first instance when during a brief lull in the conversation Inge said to him, ‘Well, Harry, what news about this Blackhurst woman?’

Briefly, he summarised the latest. Matthew Cullinan’s eyes began to gleam even before he had finished. ‘Excellent news. If she’s a fraud, we must be able to put a good deal of pressure on this lawyer of hers. Sounds as though he’s making a complete ass of himself.’

‘It must be true that love is blind. I don’t know what he sees in her.’

‘Oh, I can think of a couple of things,’ Matthew said and gave him a man-to-man wink. ‘So what happens next?’

Harry described his plan to accompany Stephanie on her trip to North Wales and Juliet clapped her hands with enthusiasm. ‘Wonderful! So you really are going to play the detective?’

‘Juliet loves a mystery,’ Inge said. ‘I think if she had her time again she’d be a female private eye herself.’

‘It would make a change from simply reading the books. You know, that wonderful shop called the Speckled Band? I haunt it. I feel as though I’m walking into an Aladdin’s cave each time I step through the door.’

‘Then it’s strange we haven’t bumped into each other before now,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve been buying books from Ashley ever since he opened. And there is a connection with the Kavanaugh Trust. He is the godson of the former chairman, who died a few days ago.’

Her eyes opened wide. ‘I didn’t know that.’

Harry gave her an edited account of the mystery surrounding Luke’s death, watching Matthew’s face as he described how, in the last few days of his life, Luke had given the impression of being afraid of something. His host remained impassive until Harry said that Luke had apparently argued with a visitor in his hotel room on the night of his death.

‘Are you suggesting there was something - untoward about his death?’

Juliet said briskly, ‘Come on, Matthew, let’s call a spade a spade. It sounds as though Harry’s suggesting this is really a murder case.’

‘It’s ridiculous,’ Matthew snapped. ‘Luke killed himself. Failing that, he had an accident. Murder is out of the question.’

‘Don’t get so heated, darling,’ Inge said. ‘It’s not like you.’

‘Sorry, my love,’ he said, instantly contrite. ‘It’s just that I don’t like to have his death treated as some sort of parlour game. It’s a human tragedy. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?’

‘Of course,’ Juliet said and her ironic inflection told Harry that, beneath the civilised chit-chat, she had little time for Matthew Cullinan. The more he saw of her, the more he warmed to her.

Putting on his most genial expression, Matthew said, ‘Tell you what, Harry. Why don’t you have a listen to this?’

He moved over to the sound system and selected a compact disc from the cabinet which he put into the player. The room was filled with discordant music and Harry had drunk enough to be unsure whether it was the booze or the din that was giving him a headache.

Juliet grimaced. ‘What in God’s name is this?’

‘Real fist to the piano stuff, eh? Yet without it, Harry and I would never have met.’

Harry stared. ‘How do you mean?’

‘I take it you’re not familiar with classical music of the thirties?’

‘Not - not if you exclude Gershwin.’ Oh God, I’m beginning to slur my words.

Matthew chuckled. ‘This, my friend, is the most successful piece Gervase Kavanaugh ever wrote. A little number called “Suite for Lucifer”.’

Harry listened for a little while to the screeching violins and crashing cymbals and said, ‘Well, it proves one thing, doesn’t it?’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s just not true that the devil has all the best tunes.’

Chapter 13

The telephone woke him at ten the next morning. He picked up the bedside receiver and groaned his name.

Kim said, ‘Good dinner party, was it?’

The thudding inside his head made Status Quo sound like the Swingle Singers. ‘Whoever said the rich are different was right,’ he mumbled. ‘They have the constitution of an ox. I don’t think I’m cut out for the high life.’

‘You disappoint me. I always thought you could take your drink.’

‘Beer’s one thing, but I’ve never had much practice with champagne.’ He was trying to remember. Had he been sick on the carpet after all?

‘Call yourself a solicitor?’ She was in breezy mood. A morning person, Kim, unlike himself. ‘I take it you had a wonderful time?’

‘Sort of.’ An image began to form in his mind, fuzzy at first but becoming clearer. The face of Juliet May.

‘You must tell me about it when the hangover clears.’ She paused. ‘I simply rang to beg your forgiveness.’

‘What for?’ He had an uneasy recollection of Juliet’s leg pressing against his. Even now he thought he could smell her perfume.

‘I’m going to have to cry off Vertigo. Quentin and his partners are having a meeting over dinner tonight. It’s a regular event in their calendar, but they want to talk over their offer with me. I shall have to make up my mind soon whether or not to accept.’

He sensed that she was waiting for him to respond, but he could not think of anything worthwhile to say. ‘I suppose so. Good luck.’

‘Sorry about the film.’

‘Doesn’t matter. Let me know how you get on.’

‘I will. And Harry - ’

‘Yes?’

‘Oh, nothing.’

After she had rung off, he sat on top of his bed hugging his knees for a few minutes, telling himself that he should have handled the conversation better. But his mind was jumping around like the playback on a faulty video recorder. He could vaguely recall being helped into a taxi the previous evening by Matthew whilst Inge asked if he would be all right. He had protested that he felt fine, absolutely fine whilst Juliet said something - was it about seeing him again some time? The one thing he could be sure of now was that the queasiness in his stomach was not due solely to the alcohol he had consumed. It was senseless to deceive himself. He wanted badly to see the woman again. Never mind that she was married to Casper May. For the moment, he cared more about whether in his drunken state he had made a fool of himself in front of her than the outcome of Kim’s meeting with the partners of Windaybanks.

A shower, a potful of black coffee and a couple of hours later, he was walking from his flat past the police headquarters and in the direction of the city centre. It was the coldest day of the year so far and flecks of snow were falling, but at least the raw wind coming in from the Mersey was helping to clear his head. He felt less fragile now that he had a sense of purpose. He had remembered Juliet mentioning that on Saturdays she often stopped off at Ashley Whitaker’s shop in the middle of the day.

Yet there was no sign of her when he arrived at the Speckled Band Bookshop. Ashley was behind the counter, debating the merits of Dorothy L. Sayers with a gnarled customer in a huge camel overcoat. Melissa was sitting on one of the tables in the middle of the ground floor, kicking her long and elegant legs as she leafed through Strangers in a Train.

‘I don’t often see you here,’ he said.

‘I keep away. Ashley’s the detective story fan. Personally, I prefer poetry. I think Sylvia Plath is marvellous.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Harry decided that Melissa wouldn’t be an ideal choice as a fun companion on a desert island. Maybe Roy hadn’t simply been jealous of Ashley when he’d described her as being as neurotic as hell. ‘Can I interest you in an exchange of murders?’ he asked, nodding at the Highsmith book.

She glanced in Ashley’s direction and gave a high-pitched laugh. ‘There are times when I might be tempted. He lives in a world of his own, frankly. Do you know, he spent the whole of yesterday evening on the phone to some crime nut in Milwaukee, having promised faithfully to take me out for a slap-up meal? He’s obsessed. I don’t think anyone could blame me if I agreed a murder-swop. But who would you wish to do away with?’

‘The list is endless. It starts with the Lord Chancellor and goes all the way down to the computer salesman who told me that his system was idiot-proof.’ He shook his head. ‘By the way. I was talking to one of your customers last night. A woman called Juliet May.’

‘Casper May’s wife? That’s right, she spends a lot of money here.’ She grimaced. ‘I’m glad someone does. Where did you meet her?’

‘Matthew Cullinan invited me to dinner. It turned out that Juliet May is friendly with his girlfriend, Inge Frontzeck.’

‘The German girl? She’s the daughter of Uwe Frontzeck, isn’t she?’

At last he remembered where he had heard the surname before. ‘Isn’t he…?’

‘The businessman. He owns Frontzeck Clothes. They have a chain of shops. Very up-market.’

‘The name did ring a distant bell. But I’ve never been at the cutting edge of fashion.’

She gave a faint smile. ‘Perhaps you’ll have seen him mentioned in the financial pages of the Press.’

‘I don’t read them,’ Harry confessed.

‘I sympathise. My father used to study the share index in the same way that Ashley pores over an Agatha Christie for clues.’

‘Your father was in business as well, wasn’t he?’

Melissa’s tone softened. ‘Yes, he ran a brewery. I used to complain that he loved the company more than me, but it wasn’t true and deep down I always knew it. My mother died of a stroke when I was young and he did everything he could to make sure I was looked after. He was always wonderful to me. And then some bastard killed him in a hit-and-run accident and things were never the same again.’

Harry pushed aside a pile of paperbacks so that he could sit next to her. ‘My parents died when I was still at school. A fire engine screaming through red lights hit them broadside. They never stood a chance. They were killed instantly, or so I was told. But I’ve always wondered whether, in the last few seconds, they realised what was about to happen, knew that they were helpless and that there was no escape. Silly of me. Morbid.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘The fire engine was answering a hoax call,’ he said. ‘The one thing I’ve never been able to do is defend kids accused of raising false alarms. Again, it’s stupid, unfair. I act for rapists, murderers, men of violence. Even drink-drivers. But hoax callers - no, I can’t hack it.’

‘And if I had my way,’ she said, ‘the kid, whoever he was, who killed my father would hang. I still wish I could meet him, to tell him what a wonderful life was destroyed that day. It’s a human reaction, I suppose. But as everyone has always told me, life must go on.’

‘Most people realise that,’ Harry said. ‘I suppose that’s why Ashley and I find it so difficult to believe that Luke would have killed himself for no good reason.’

She gave him a searching look. ‘So he’s been sharing his pet theory with you?’

‘I understand you’re not convinced.’

She shook her head. ‘Ashley’s getting carried away. He does that. Every so often, he gets a wild idea into his head and nothing can shift it. Like marrying me, for instance.’

‘He once told me it was the best thing he ever did in his life.’

‘He’s kinder than I deserve. No-one could accuse him of marrying me just for my money. The last ten years can’t have been a picnic. I’m not easy to live with, Harry. I’ve spent more hours in therapy than you’ve had hot dinners, but still I have days when I find life is simply - too much. Perhaps I had that in common with Luke.’

‘How close were you to Luke?’

‘We knew each other for years, yet we never talked intimately. But I always sensed that somehow he was - dissatisfied with life. He was lonely. Which is why he liked to spend so much time with us. Ashley wasn’t a blood relative, but he was the closest to family that Luke had.’

‘So you’re not surprised by the idea that Luke might have committed suicide?’

‘I could understand it. He was in his fifties, a widower.’ She sighed. ‘When I told myself that life must go on, I was barely twenty-one, still with everything to look forward to. Very different. Besides, in a strange kind of way, perhaps something good did come out of my father’s death. Daddy took the view that no young man would ever be good enough for his only daughter. Ashley is a dear, but he would never have been Daddy’s cup of tea. He’s never been a go-getter, never will be. But as soon as I phoned him with the news that Daddy had been killed, he rushed back from France. He’d been out there back-packing. We’ve been together ever since. Whenever I think I’m going to scream if I hear one more word about clues and red herrings, I remember that. He was a tower of strength when I needed one.’ She mustered a smile. ‘So perhaps we won’t go ahead with the exchange of murders plan, after all.’

Harry looked across to Ashley. He was sealing up a parcel which contained an ancient and dust-jacketed copy of The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club. Its cost to the purchaser was fifty times that of an immaculate modern reprint, but collectors prized scarcity over substance. Harry shook his head. Not all the mysteries of crime fiction were to be found between book covers.

When her husband had bidden farewell to the collector and ambled over to join them, Melissa said, ‘Harry knows Juliet May.’

‘I understand she is a regular here,’ Harry said.

‘One of my best customers. She loves mysteries, buys them by the carload. As a matter of fact, she often calls in around this time on a Saturday.’

‘Matthew Cullinan introduced them,’ Melissa said. ‘Harry dined at Matthew’s last night.’

Ashley’s eyebrows rose. ‘Rubbing shoulders with the aristocracy, eh?’

‘After sampling Inge’s cooking at the Piquet Club, I felt the invitation was an offer I simply couldn’t refuse. Though I should have gone easier on the champagne. My head’s still buzzing.’

Melissa slipped off the table. ‘I must go. Keys please, darling.’ As she held out her hand, she said to Harry, ‘My car’s in dock until Monday. I only popped in to borrow the Lexus. And see what happens? I end up kicking my heels for half an hour whilst he prattles on about Dorothy L. But I enjoyed our chat. See you.’

Ashley blew a kiss at her departing back. ‘Can’t be easy, being married to a crime book-seller. Did I tell you I’d picked up a collection of first editions by Freeman Wills Crofts? He’s one of my all-time favourites. Not exactly Tolstoy, but it’s still sad that his work is so neglected today. Anyway, tell me about your dinner. Did you happen to touch on - the matters we spoke about the other day?’

‘Matthew and I did have a word about the Trust.’ Harry paused. He was conscious that he acted for the Trust and for Roy Milburn as an individual, as well as for Ashley. His instinct was always to interpret freely the professional rules on conflicts of interests if it seemed right to do so. Nevertheless, he would have to tread carefully. ‘Matthew did mention that he was concerned about the state of the Trust’s finances. He’d even raised the matter with Luke.’

‘What exactly was the problem?’

‘Well…’

‘Sorry, I’m being too inquisitive. But it’s not just idle curiosity on my part. If there is anything connected with Luke’s death that needs to be exposed, I hope you will be prepared to… Hello! Were your ears burning a few minutes ago?’

Ashley’s last remark was addressed to Juliet May, who had appeared in the doorway laden with bags. But Saturday shopping did not seem to have ruffled her; evidently her head for champagne was better than Harry’s.

‘Hi, you two. Harry - we must stop meeting like this. And why should my ears have been burning, Ashley?’

‘I gather you both dined with Matthew and Inge last night.’

‘A thoroughly enjoyable evening.’ She gave Harry a cheeky grin. ‘Don’t you agree?’

He felt himself blushing. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

‘You too. Ashley, have you had any luck with the Fredric Brown?’

‘It’s in the back room. The shipment from the States arrived yesterday and I haven’t finished unpacking it all yet. Hang on a couple of ticks and I’ll dig the book out.’

As he disappeared from sight, Juliet said, ‘Small world, don’t you think?’

Harry cleared his throat. ‘I have a confession to make.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Sounds interesting.’

‘I remembered you saying that you often called in here around the middle of Saturday. I’ve been killing time with Ashley and Melissa in the hope that you’d turn up.’

‘I’m flattered.’

‘You see - I’ve been meaning to watch a rerun of Vertigo at the Philharmonic Picture Palace tonight. You mentioned last night that, with your husband being away, you were at a loose end at present, so I wondered…’

She clapped her hands in delight. ‘How kind!’

‘Of course,’ he said hastily, ‘I realise you probably won’t be interested at all. And I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea. If you don’t…’

‘I promise,’ she said in a solemn tone, ‘I haven’t got the wrong idea. And I am interested. I love that film. Thank you.’

Ashley returned, carrying a book in a protective plastic wrapper. ‘Here you are,’ he said to Juliet. ‘A first edition of The Screaming Mimi. Shall I put it on your account?’

‘Please.’ She turned to Harry and said, ‘Lovely to bump into you again.’

‘And you.’

After she had gone, Ashley said, ‘Lovely woman.’

‘Yes.’ Harry had an uncomfortable sense that his face and mind were too easy to read. In his haste to change the subject, he found himself offering to buy rather more books than he had space for in his flat or time to read. All the same, it had been a worthwhile visit.

***

Less than two hours later, he and Stephanie were together in his MG, taking the turn from the A55 that led to the centre of Colwyn Bay. It had begun to drizzle, reminding Harry of a wet holiday spent here with his parents when he was six or seven. He could remember sitting in his dad’s old Austin 1100, parked on the promenade, waiting for the next train to emerge from the tunnel in the cliff at the edge of the bay, since the old man had promised him an ice cream then if he hadn’t made a nuisance of himself in the meantime. The Costa del Sol it wasn’t, but he cherished the memories, all the same.

On the way over here, he had been regaling Stephanie with tales of the unexpected from the life of a Liverpool lawyer. She was a good listener and his story about a matrimonial dispute over custody of the single set of false teeth possessed by a couple from Huyton had kept her entertained all the way from Connah’s Quay. ‘Back to business,’ he said as they stopped at traffic lights. ‘Where do we go from here?’

‘Vera told Charles’s next-door neighbour that she used to live in a mansion just up the road from the Welsh Mountain Zoo. Look, there’s a sign to it.’

They climbed the hill that overlooked the resort and the bay and soon found a group of large houses which might, allowing for a little poetic licence, have fitted the account that Vera had given of her time here. Stephanie started knocking on doors, with Harry at her side, spinning a yarn about a long-lost aunt whom they were looking up on the off-chance. It had enough of a ring of truth to prevent the doors being slammed in their faces.

‘You lie admirably,’ he said after they had drawn a blank for the third or fourth time.

‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ she said. ‘Put it down to a vacation job I had before I went to uni. I worked in telesales.’

‘Ever considered employment in a legal aid office? Anyway, one thing is beginning to bother me. Suppose Vera lied too? She may simply have come here once on holiday.’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘That’s the life of a private detective. Come on, let’s try this place before we start down the mean streets of Mochdre.’

This time they struck lucky. Their call was answered by a sweet little grey-haired lady who proved to have both time on her hands and an axe to grind. Harry was impressed by the way in which Stephanie sensed at once the need to demonise the missing aunt and adjust her story accordingly. Her talent for telling a tall story would have been envied by any of his criminal clients.

Within a few minutes they were ensconced in Amy Lewis’s sitting-room, taking tea and listening to the story of how, almost five years earlier, her path had crossed with that of Vera Blackhurst.

‘I used to play bridge with a man called Ieuwan Croft, see? He and his wife Blodwen had retired to that huge place you may have seen on the other side of the road. Tara, they called it.’

Stephanie and Harry nodded. It was a miniature Versailles with a spectacular outlook; they had seen a Bentley and a sports car parked outside. Ieuwan Croft, they were told, had run one of the largest haulage firms in Wales until a mild stroke had prompted his retirement. He and his wife had become friendly with Amy Lewis and her husband and when Mrs Croft had died, Ieuwan had needed to advertise for a housekeeper.

‘And guess who answered?’ Amy Lewis demanded.

‘Not Auntie Vera?’ Stephanie cried, clapping a hand to her mouth. ‘My dear old mum always used to say that

she would come to a bad end! She’d never have guessed

that Auntie would have wound up keeping house for a millionaire.’

‘And not just keeping house either, if you ask me,’ Amy Lewis said darkly. Her own husband had died a matter of days before Mrs Croft, and Harry deduced that she had fancied herself as a suitable second wife for the wealthy Ieuwan. But Vera had been more than a match for her.

‘A brassy tart, if you ask me,’ Amy Lewis said. ‘Sorry, dear, I know she’s your auntie, but I have to speak as I find.’

‘No, no,’ Stephanie said. ‘My mum used to say exactly the same. Those very words, even. She had no time for Auntie Vera, that’s why I never tried to look her up whilst Mum was alive.’ She gave their hostess a trusting smile. ‘You know, it’s funny, you remind me a lot of dear old mum. Something about the eyes.’

‘That’s sweet of you, dear. Another fairy cake? Well, where was I? Oh yes, within a matter of weeks Ieuwan had given up playing bridge and was spending all his time out on the seafront, sitting arm in arm with her ladyship. I knew her game, all right. But there was nothing I could do.’

Six months after Vera’s arrival in his life, Ieuwan Croft suffered another stroke and died. Natural causes, nothing suspicious about it, Amy Lewis grudgingly admitted. ‘And no prizes for guessing who he left most of his money to?’

‘Surely not Auntie Vera?’ Stephanie cried. She was living the part. Harry was in serious danger of collapsing into hysterics. ‘No wonder she never got in touch again!’

‘Was there no other family?’ he asked, trying to suppress his amusement.

‘No children, but plenty of cousins, nephews and nieces who had no liking for that Vera Blackhurst. Ieuwan had made the will only a couple of months before he died. They tried to challenge it, but their solicitors advised them their case wasn’t strong enough to take to court.’

In the end, a deal had been done. Vera had not hung out for every last penny; indeed, she had offered a compromise which seemed so generous that the family had bitten her hand off. But she’d still walked away with a small fortune.

Amy Lewis’s little blue eyes gleamed with bitterness. ‘Not a bad investment for six months of her life, I’d say.’

Harry nodded. He was trying hard to contain his good humour. He could not wait until he got the chance to tell Geoffrey Willatt all about his lady love’s profitable past.

Chapter 14

Vertigo was a film in which he found something new each time he saw it. It often troubled him that he was so fascinated by a film about infatuation with a dead woman: it was dangerous to see parallels between life and art. Liz, like Hitchcock’s Madeleine, was dead and beyond recall. He would never forget his wife or the passion he had for her, but he knew that she belonged to the past. Melissa Whitaker was right: life must go on. And yet, he realised, as he parked near the Philharmonic Picture Palace, he had failed to find anyone who had begun to make him feel the way he had about Liz. There had been a brief affair with an older woman who lived at the Empire Dock, a local barrister and then the uncertainties of his relationship with Kim. He cared for Kim, cared for her a good deal, but it was not the same. Perhaps he’d needed to spend time with a woman quite different from his dead wife. But the truth, he was beginning to recognise, was that caring a good deal was not enough. He needed to experience again the hot desire he had only ever known with one woman. If it was possible to experience it again.

So why had he fixed up a date with a married woman? It didn’t make sense. Adultery had wrecked his own marriage and he told himself that he had no intention of wrecking anyone else’s. He had seen too many clients make that mistake. Besides, Casper May was not a man to cross. So he must behave himself and make the most of her company while he had it. Talk about murder mysteries past and present. And perhaps try to guess the answer to the trickiest riddle of all: what was a woman like Juliet doing married to Casper May?

He could see her waiting for him on the steps that led to the cinema. Her auburn hair was in a shaggy perm that spilled on to the shoulders of her black jacket. She was leaning back against the wall with her arms folded and smiling as if she owned the place. At once he cast all other thoughts aside and remembered his reason for inviting her out tonight. She made him feel good: it was as simple as that.

‘Am I late?’ he asked guiltily.

‘No. I’m early. I’ve been looking forward to this, even though I’ve seen the film once before. How about you?’

‘I must have watched it half a dozen times. It fascinates me.’

She looked at him intently. ‘I have the impression you don’t do things by halves.’

‘Jim reckons that’s one of my weaknesses.’

‘He’s wrong. If you care about something, you should give it all you’ve got. No holding back.’

With a grin, he took her arm and led her inside. The Picture Palace had been open only a couple of years, but the owner had faithfully recreated the ambience of an old-time cinema, with faded plush seats and even an organ that rose from beneath the floor to play a few tunes before giving way to the dark rhythms of Bernard Herrmann once the main show began. He always found the film engrossing, could not help becoming absorbed in James Stewart’s obsession with the mysterious blonde. But tonight for once he found his attention wandering. When at last he succumbed to temptation and moved his leg experimentally against hers, he was rewarded by an answering pressure. Later, she leaned her head on his shoulder and when, an hour into the picture, he dared to stretch an arm around her shoulder, she did not try to edge away. He felt her permed curls brush lightly against his cheek and closed his eyes, inhaling her perfume, wondering what it would be like to take her home for the night.

It was over too soon and as they emerged into the chilly night air she smiled at him and said, ‘Thank you. I enjoyed that.’

‘Can I offer you a drink?’

She shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I ought to be getting back.’

‘Surely you have time for…’

‘No, I’d love to. But it wouldn’t be a good idea. I need to be up early tomorrow morning. I have to drive to Manchester Airport to meet my husband.’

The brush-off? He scanned her face, desperate to find a clue to her thoughts. ‘Perhaps some other time?’

‘I do hope so, Harry.’ She bent towards him and kissed him chastely on the cheek. ‘Thank you so much for asking me to come with you. I’ve had a lovely evening. And I do hope we’ll see each other again before too long.’

‘I’m bound to need your help with my first press release.’

‘If you do, give me a call.’ She thought for a moment. ‘But even if you don’t, perhaps you’ll give me a call anyway?’

And then she was gone. He watched her thread through the crowd, raising an arm to hail a passing taxi. Not until the taxi had disappeared did he move. By then he knew that he needed to see her again. Like a junkie craves the needle, he already yearned for another fix of her company.

When Kim rang him the next morning, he could tell straight away that she had made her decision. The careful tone of her suggestion that he come round for a meal that evening told him that the news was bad.

‘I thought - we could talk,’ she said.

‘Sure.’

‘Would seven o’clock suit you?’

‘I’ll be there.’

He put the receiver down wishing that he could share the win-a-few-lose-a-few outlook of a man like Roy Milburn. At least he’d been given a little time to become accustomed to the idea of her departure for London. And at least he’d met Juliet May.

But Juliet’s out of bounds, he told himself. Stop thinking of her.

The phone rang again. Stephanie, this time. She sounded exasperated. ‘You’ll never guess. Jonah discharged himself from hospital last night. He refused to stay there a moment longer, the cussed old thing. I said he ought to listen to the doctors, that it would serve him right if he dropped down dead the moment he got home, but he wouldn’t be told. I’m over at his flat now. Of course, as soon as he arrived back here, he found out he was still very weak. He’s spending his time watching telly and complaining about the programmes.’

‘So you won’t be free this afternoon?’

Driving back from North Wales, they had agreed to follow up another lead that Stephanie had picked up from Charles Kavanaugh’s neighbours. Vera had mentioned that she came originally from Warrington and the plan was to try to check out her past and see how far it varied from the story she had been telling.

‘Not a bit of it. Jonah’s insisting we pursue the inquiry. I think he’s afraid of me using his illness as an excuse for slacking off. Can you pick me up here in half an hour?’

On his way through a downpour to Jonah’s flat, Harry reflected that perhaps he had more in common with the old battleaxe than he would like to think. Since the death of their wives, they had both tried to lose themselves in their work, in solving other people’s puzzles. It wasn’t simply a way of killing time: it made it easier to forget the past.

The last time Harry had visited the flat, it had been as chaotically disordered as his own, with dishes piled high on the draining board and a layer of dust on every surface. It was a single man’s home, somewhere to doss down for a chap who contended that life was too short for housework. But things had changed. As Stephanie showed him in to the living-room, he almost had to shield his eyes from the shine on the brasses adorning the opposite wall. It was as if they were expecting to host a photo-shoot for Ideal Home.

Only Jonah made the place look untidy. He was hunched up in an armchair, wearing a mutinous scowl and a cardigan that looked as though it dated back to the days of clothes rationing. He looked up from the Radio Times and said, ‘Load of bloody rubbish. That licence fee is daylight robbery.’

‘Do I gather you’re on the mend?’

Jonah grunted and jerked a thumb in his niece’s direction. ‘To hear some people talk, you’d think I was at death’s bloody door.’

‘If you don’t keep your promise to the doctor about no more roll-your-own cigarettes, you’ll be slamming the door behind you,’ Stephanie said.

‘The sooner I get back to normal, the better.’ Jonah indicated their surroundings with a melancholic wave. ‘She’s even tried to do a bit of tidying. Didn’t ask first, of course. I used to know where everything was. Now I can’t find a bloody thing.’

Harry grinned. ‘Better be careful. If you don’t keep your eyes open, she’ll be making you redundant.’

Jonah snorted. ‘Oh aye, I’ve heard all about yesterday. The two of you got a lucky break, fair enough. But believe me, the case is only over when the money from the client is safely in the bank.’

Stephanie raised her eyebrows to the heavens and said, ‘We’d better go, Harry, before the temptation to strangle him overwhelms me. Lucky break? Huh!’

‘So what do we know about Vera’s connection with Cheshire?’ Harry asked as they drove along the M62.

‘She actually mentioned growing up in a black-and-white manor house just outside the town. She became all nostalgic and complained about the government taking part of the family estate when a viaduct was being built for the motorway. I know the area quite well.’ She coloured. ‘As a matter of fact, I used to go out with a boy from Stockton Heath. I spent quite a bit of time there before he ditched me, the bastard. One thing I’m sure of. There’s only one motorway viaduct, on the M6 at Thelwall. That should make life easier for us.’

The rain had stopped and the grey-blue sky had begun to brighten. As he glanced to his right, Harry saw the huge chimneys of the power station at Fiddler’s Ferry glinting in the sunlight. He told himself that it didn’t take long for things to take a turn for the better. There was nothing to be gained by agonising over Kim. Stephanie was no Juliet May; she was little more than a kid. But even if Colwyn Bay and Warrington were hardly Miami Beach, he was keen to make the most of his chance to play the detective. Besides, she was good company.

‘So you always had your heart set on working with Jonah?’ he asked.

‘Why not? There are plenty of worse fates. A girl on my course at uni started working part-time as a stripper to pay off her student loan. Another took a job as a guide at some tea-towel museum down on the south coast.’ She grinned. ‘I remind myself of them whenever I get fed up with studying for my NVQ.’

Harry was puzzled. ‘NVQ?’

‘National Vocational Qualification.’

‘Yeah, I know, but what in?’

She sighed at his ignorance. ‘Private investigation, of course. It’s a recognised subject. Gone legit, you might say. There are thousands of us now, you know. Even though we’re not overseen by any statutory body.’

‘Don’t be in a hurry to invent one. You might end up with something like the Law Society.’

‘There are too many cowboys in this job,’ she said seriously. ‘It damages the reputation of all of us. This is the consumer age. We need to offer proper client care.’

‘Don’t tell Jonah or he’ll have a relapse,’ Harry said.

She laughed. For all her earnestness, she didn’t lack a sense of humour. It was one of the things he liked about her. The ex-boyfriend had been a fool as well as a bastard. ‘So what’s the appeal of detective work to you?’

‘Put it down to insatiable curiosity. I’ve always liked puzzles and mystery stories. Trouble is, the mysteries keep spilling over into real life - and I can’t resist getting involved.’ He hesitated. ‘I’ve even started wondering if I might have a clue about the identity of the Scissorman.’

Stephanie’s eyes widened. ‘Tell me more.’

He explained the theory that Davey might be the Scissorman which had remained obstinately at the back of his mind. ‘For what it’s worth, he did turn up in town just before the Scissorman killed a Liverpool girl for the first time.’

‘It’s not much to go on.’

‘I realise. And of course, he might be entirely innocent.’

‘So what are you going to do?’ she demanded.

‘I don’t know,’ he said helplessly. ‘I just don’t know.’

‘That must be it,’ he said after they had parked on the road which ran under the Thelwall Viaduct. Between their lay-by and the hump-backed bridge which carried the road over a canal was a gatepost marked Massey Brook Manor. A curving drive led up to a splendid black-and-white building of the type often found in Cheshire. At one time it must have been one of the finest homes in the area. The only problem was that now it commanded a spectacular view of eight lanes of motorway traffic. Harry wound down the car window, which was beginning to mist up, but the roar from the viaduct almost deafened him.

She pointed to a sign which informed them that the place was a residential home for the elderly. ‘I suppose it’s lovely if you’re hard of hearing. You know what? It wouldn’t surprise me if Vera did live here once. But I can’t see it as her ancestral home. Maybe she was a live-in care assistant, something like that. Shall I tell them about my dear old uncle who thought the sun shone out of her? Yes, I think I’ll invent an older brother for Jonah: someone as trusting as he is cynical.’

Her guess about Vera’s past proved to have been inspired, but the voluble deputy matron who talked to them evidently found it hard to swallow a story which elevated Vera to near-sainthood. It turned out that she had left them in the lurch nearly ten years earlier and the deputy matron had yet to forgive her.

‘Oh aye, she was local. Grew up in Statham, I gather, but she always liked to give herself airs and graces. She’d worked in several other homes before she landed up here. She certainly took in Mr Edghill, the chap who used to own the Manor. I always said that men were fools about Vera. They could never see through her, though any woman could.’

Harry nodded. He was thinking about Geoffrey Willatt. ‘How did she get on with the residents?’

The deputy matron frowned. ‘With the blokes, too well, if you want my honest opinion. She toadied to them. I didn’t care for it at all. Of course, I was quite new here myself, I couldn’t do anything about it. But she was constantly trying to wheedle things out of them. They never cottoned on, of course. They were just flattered. Heaven knows what they saw in someone so brassy.’

‘Why did she leave?’ Stephanie asked. ‘Was there a row?’

‘Oh no, Mr Edghill pleaded with her to stay. Quite ridiculous, we were well rid of her, if you ask me. But she found a comfier billet for herself, it was as simple as that. She’d worked out that there was more money to be made from looking after lonely old men on their own. One night she went out to a pub and met a retired farmer who didn’t have any family to inherit his business.’ The woman shook her head at the naïvety of the male sex. ‘He didn’t stand a chance. And less than twelve months later he was dead.’

‘So Vera Blackhurst turns out to be a serial beneficiary,’ Stephanie reported to Jonah when they were back in Liverpool.

‘How did the farmer kick the bucket?’ Jonah demanded. ‘Another convenient stroke?’

‘You’re wasting your time if you want to pin a murder on her. I’m sure that isn’t her style. No, this fellow went into hospital for a gall bladder operation and had a heart attack from which he never recovered. Vera made a good show of being mortified, but she had half his fortune to cheer her up. The other half went to charity. Same story: he’d changed his will shortly before his demise. This is one very persuasive lady.’

‘Vera isn’t the only one,’ Harry told Jonah. ‘Your niece is a born detective. The way she coaxed the story out of the woman had me lost in admiration.’

Stephanie blushed. ‘We aim to please.’

‘You never told me that before, Jonah,’ Harry said with a grin.

The old man grunted. ‘You realise she’s put a lot of time into this job? It’ll cost, y’know.’

As Stephanie showed him out half an hour later, Harry whispered, ‘How is he, really?’

A cloud passed across her face. ‘He still can’t adjust to the fact that he’s not a well man. That’s what worries me. But I do think he’s on the mend. He’s starting to fuss about money again and that must be a good sign. Except for our clients.’

‘Don’t worry about the trustees. I’ll make sure they cough up.’

‘You’re sure they can still afford my services, despite their financial problems?’

‘You’re not seriously worried about that, are you?’

‘Jonah didn’t want me to tell you this, but he did get me to make one or two discreet enquiries about the Trust to make sure they were good for the money. I know a chap who is involved with the Charity Commission and he suggested that the Trust’s finances were causing his people a bit of concern.’

‘I didn’t know they had wind of any problem.’

‘Don’t underestimate them. They may not move like greased lightning, but they’re no fools. They are starting to sniff around. Not so long ago, the Trust had money to burn. Now it’s on its uppers. Where has the money gone?’

‘They are a philanthropic organisation,’ Harry said. ‘They dole out money right, left and centre to people in the arts world who apply for it. That’s the reason Gervase set the Trust up in the first place. A spot of carelessness here, one or two iffy investments there - and before you know where you are, you’re strapped for cash.’

‘Maybe. But from what I hear, I don’t think it accounts for anything like the whole of the problem. And I guess you think much the same. Which makes me wonder - why did Luke Dessaur let things slide?’

‘You’re not suggesting he was on the take? I simply can’t believe that.’

‘He killed himself, or so most people think,’ Stephanie pointed out. ‘Guilty conscience?’

‘Listen, I haven’t met many men I’d describe as honest through and through. Most men have their price. But Luke was an exception.’

‘Okay, okay. But maybe his control wasn’t as tight as it should have been.’

‘Could be. But if you want the truth, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the perennially poverty-stricken treasurer has been blowing the dust off his wallet lately.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, well.’

An angry voice from the sitting-room demanded, ‘What the bloody hell are you two whispering about?’

‘You’d better go,’ she said, ‘before he accuses me of chatting you up. He seems to think I’ve only got to meet an unattached man to want to have my wicked way with him.’

‘Keep in touch,’ Harry said. And on the way back to Empire Dock, he couldn’t help thinking that, an unattached man, it would be lucky if Stephanie did have her wicked way with him.

‘I suppose you’ve guessed what I have to tell you,’ Kim said that evening.

They were in her sitting-room, having a drink before dinner. She was looking as lovely as he had ever seen her, in a cream silk shirt and black trousers. Once or twice in the past he’d risked her wrath by saying that the baggy sweaters and crumpled corduroys she favoured didn’t make the most of her slim figure. As soon as she’d opened the door to him, his heart had sunk. If she was staying in Liverpool, she wouldn’t have made such an effort to please him.

‘It’s the right decision,’ he said. ‘For you.’

‘Yes, it is. Though that doesn’t mean it was easy to take.’

‘Thanks for thinking twice.’

‘I owed you that, at least.’

‘You don’t owe me anything. If you hadn’t accepted MOJO’s offer, you’d always have regretted it. One thing I’m sure of is that they need you as much as you need them. You’ll make a difference.’

‘I hope so.’ She sighed. ‘I’m excited about the challenge, of course I am. But I’ll miss you.’

‘You’ll let me know how you get on?’

‘I wouldn’t dare not to. We must keep in touch.’

‘Yes, we must,’ he said. But he felt they were like two holiday-makers who had enjoyed a brief romance with the aid of sun and sand and Sangria. Once check-out time came, they would go their separate ways. It would be better not to see each other again. Memories were always more comfortable if they were not disturbed by fleeting, ill-at-ease reunions.

He raised his glass. ‘To the future.’

‘To the future, Harry.’

During the meal she let out a small exclamation and clapped her hand to the side of her head. ‘I almost forgot.’

‘Mmmm?’ For once she had forsaken her vegetarian cookbook and Harry was relishing the Châteaubriand.

‘Your friend, the Great Timothy. I remembered where I’d come across him before. It was after he killed his mother.’

‘What?’

She laughed. ‘Do I have your full attention now? Yes, he strangled his dear old mum.’

‘Tim Aldred? You’re pulling my leg.’

‘Gospel truth. Mind you, there were extenuating circumstances.’

‘Like what? Did she throw his conjuring set in the dustbin?’

‘It was a mercy killing. And joking apart, it was a sad case, one of the saddest I can recall. I was only on the fringe of it, though. It all happened while I was an articled clerk. My principal acted for Tim Aldred. I simply did some of the leg work.’

‘What happened?’

‘As far as I can remember, he lived at home with the old lady. By then his wife had already run off with the kids. His mother suffered very badly from arthritis. The pain was agonising and the doctors could do nothing for her. Even the maximum dosage of morphine couldn’t touch it. To cut a long story short, she begged him to kill her. For a time, he resisted, but in the end he granted her wish. He tried to make it look as though she’d committed suicide, but he wasn’t as good at covering his tracks as he should have been. Perhaps his skills as an illusionist weren’t so well-developed in those days. The police began to ask questions and although at first he denied having helped the old girl out of her misery, eventually he started contradicting himself. Before long, his story fell apart. So they charged him with murder.’

Harry swore. ‘Was there any financial gain?’

‘She owned a house and she’d put a few pounds away in the building society. He was an only child and everything was due to come to him anyway. No motive for murder on any sensible view of the case. The two of them were very close. His marriage had failed and as soon as he was charged he lost his job.’

‘So he wasn’t made redundant, as he claimed?’

‘No. I remember feeling sorry for him at the time. He was turfed out by the company before the case ever came to trial. They seized on it as an excuse to avoid a hefty pay-out, I suppose. That was Tim’s trouble. He was one of life’s losers. I only met him the once, that’s why I didn’t recognise him straight away, even though the case made a great impression on me. By the time it came up at court, I’d qualified and joined another firm. I read about it in the papers, though. He wasn’t even lucky in his judge. We thought he’d get a suspended sentence at worst, but he came up across old Womble. The bastard jailed him.’

Harry whistled. ‘So he’s served time?’

‘Yes, though on appeal the sentence was cut and he got out fairly soon. I can understand why, with that experience, he concentrated on magic. The real world had let him down badly.’ She looked at him. ‘Is any of this important?’

‘It’s very interesting. Important? I dunno. Could be. Depends on whether Luke Dessaur found out about it - and, if so, on whether it bothered him at all.’

‘You’re not suggesting that the threat of removal from a board of trustees is a sufficient motive for murder?’

‘Unlikely, I agree.’ Harry paused. ‘On the other hand, from what you say, Tim does have a track record. He’s killed once before and tried to pass it off as suicide.’

‘That was different,’ Kim snapped. ‘You and your bloody detective theories. You didn’t see him all those years ago. I did - and I can tell you that I’ve seldom seen a man so penitent. There was only one reason why he strangled his mother. He did it out of love. It was a unique case. You can’t imagine he would turn into some sort of serial killer. I must say, I’m starting to wish I’d never opened my mouth.’

For a moment neither of them spoke, then Harry said softly, ‘Sorry. I was only thinking aloud. It’s a bad habit. We shouldn’t quarrel, not tonight of all nights. I’m sure you’re right. Let’s forget about it, shall we?’

She gave him a sheepish smile and nodded. Yet the mood of the evening had changed and he was almost glad when the telephone rang. Perhaps after she’d dealt with the interruption they could rescue something from the wreckage. Kiss and make up. She went out into the kitchen to take the call and whilst she was away he dipped into her music collection and put on something by Roberta Flack. If that didn’t soften the atmosphere, nothing would.

But when she came back, he realised it was all in vain. She’d already put on her outside jacket and her face was ashen.

‘Look, Harry, I’m really sorry about this, but something’s come up. I have to go to the Bridewell. To see a real murderer, this time. The Scissorman has tried to kill another working girl. But they’ve arrested him.’

He bit his lip. ‘It isn’t by any chance Davey Damnation…’

She stared at him. ‘How on earth do you know about Davey?’

‘I started wondering the other day. I’ve always thought he was harmless, but he kept on about harlots and retribution. Maybe he’s one of those who thinks he hears the voice of God, telling him to slay them.’

‘You’re not serious? You don’t think Davey’s the Scissorman?’

‘Well, didn’t you just say so?’

‘No, I didn’t. He’s in hospital at the moment, recovering from the attack.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Davey’s been walking the streets of the red light district at night, haranguing pimps and prostitutes whenever he sees them. He saw some vagrant with a pair of scissors in his hand approaching a working girl. Davey let out a yell and tried to pull the fellow off her. He was stabbed in the chest for his pains, but the girl got away and raised the alarm. A passing panda car picked the man up and he’s in custody now.’

‘And Davey?’

‘In hospital. They reckon he’ll make it, thank God.’

‘And he’ll be a bloody hero,’ Harry said, feeling dazed. Perhaps he ought to leave the detecting to Jonah and Stephanie after all.

Chapter 15

If Harry needed any reminder that breaking up was hard to do, he received it back in the office the next morning. His first client of the day was a middle-aged, middle-income middle-manager whose solution to a mid-life crisis had been to embark on a torrid affair with his secretary. A dab hand at photography, he had taken dozens of snapshots of his girlfriend in a variety of unambiguous positions. When his wife had discovered them, she had determined to divorce him and take him for every penny that he had not squandered on flowers, perfume and chocolates for her younger rival.

‘You know the mistake I made?’ the man demanded.

Harry was tempted to say that he was spoiled for choice, but contented himself with a wary shake of the head.

‘I left the pictures in the glovebox of my car. The one place my old lady was likely to look. If only I’d tucked them up inside the owner’s manual. She’d never have opened that.’

It was true, Harry reflected, as he wrote down the depressing details. One of the things that divided the sexes was their respective attitudes towards motor vehicles. When he asked a woman client about the make of car her husband used, she tended to say it was a blue one or, if pressed, ‘I think it may be a Ford.’ Kim said that when she put the same question to a man, he would bore her to death with the detail and be able to recite the chassis number. Though he would often forget how many bank accounts he possessed.

When the meeting was over, he called Frances to tell her about his trips with Stephanie to uncover Vera Blackhurst’s past history as a befriender of wealthy old men.

‘My God! Should we report this to the police?’

‘What is there to report? As far as I can see, she’s committed no criminal offence whatsoever.’

‘It sounds to me as if having Vera Blackhurst as your housekeeper can seriously damage your health.’

‘There’s no evidence that she played a part in the death of any of the old men who left money to her. She simply has a track record of going to work for widowers who were on their last legs. But there’s nothing in the report from Jonah’s niece to suggest that the wills were improperly executed. As with Charles Kavanaugh, she simply wormed her way into the affections of the men she worked for, then waited for nature to take its course.’

‘It stinks.’

‘Sure, but Vera’s not the first person to behave that way, far from it. What’s different is that she’s made a career out of inheriting money. Some people might say good luck to her. For all we know, she makes the twilight months of her benefactors happier than they would otherwise have been. They were all lonely as well as rich.’

Frances sighed. ‘So what do we do?’

‘Stick to our original plan. We wanted to strike a deal. This information gives us the chance to do just that. Vera may be as innocent of crime as a new-born child, but I doubt whether she’d welcome notoriety. Besides, when Geoffrey Willatt finds out what’s been going on, I guess he’ll stop being starry-eyed about her. He’ll advise her to settle out of court as soon as possible and then drop her like a hot brick.’

‘And you think she’ll take that advice?’

‘It won’t be the first time she’s opted for taking a fast buck.’

‘Fine. Will you go ahead and talk to Willatt, please? In the meantime, I’ll tell the other trustees. Anyone I can’t reach by phone I should see this evening. It’s the first night of that musical the Trust has backed, Promises, Promises.’

‘Any good?’

‘I certainly hope so, given the amount of money we’ve pumped into it. Look, why don’t you come along? I have a couple of spare complimentary tickets. Bring a friend.’

As soon as he put the phone down, Suzanne buzzed to say that Roy Milburn had rung and asked for a return call. Harry tried his number but found himself talking to an answering machine. He left a message and then phoned Kim. She sounded hoarse, weary and depressed after a night in the company of the police and the mentally disabled tramp who had been identified as the Scissorman.

‘Sorry, I’ve not slept. And at four o’clock this morning, my client sacked me.’

‘What happened?’

‘He wouldn’t take my advice. As far as I can tell, he has a good chance of pleading diminished responsibility, but right now he needs a psychiatrist as much as a lawyer.’ She sighed. ‘As least he’s not my problem any more. Not that I would have been around to act for him even if he hadn’t decided to conduct his own defence. I suppose in my heart I’m glad. He may be ill, but the murders were savage. My flesh crept as I sat next to him. It made me think I’ve made the right decision. I’m better suited to working in MOJO’s head office than trying to defend people who scare the shit out of me.’

Harry couldn’t help saying, ‘You’re a better lawyer than you’ll ever be a bureaucrat.’

A short laugh. ‘I suppose I ought to take that as a compliment.’

‘It was meant that way.’

‘One thing’s for sure, at least this time there won’t be a miscarriage of justice. He’s as guilty as that creep Norman Morris was innocent.’

‘To say nothing of Davey Damnation.’

‘Yes, what on earth was all that about last night? Good job you kept your thoughts to yourself.’

Apart from telling Stephanie. God, she’ll laugh when she hears the news. I’d better give her a wide berth for a while. ‘How is he?’

‘The last I heard, the tabloid press were forming a disorderly queue outside his hospital room, hoping to sign up the story of how he nailed the Scissorman. I can see the headlines already. “Dedicated evangelist risks life to trap crazed killer.”’ She yawned. ‘Anyway, I just popped in to the office for half an hour to clear a few things. After I’ve finished, I think I’ll go home to catch up on my sleep.’

‘Will you be up in time to come to the theatre with me?’

He told her about the invitation to see the musical and to his surprise she said yes.

‘I feel awful about leaving you like that last night.’

‘We both know it comes with the job.’

‘Even so. I’d love nothing better than a relaxing evening with not a religious fanatic in sight.’ She paused. ‘Besides, it may be our last chance for some time together for a while.’

‘London’s only at the end of the railway line from Lime Street,’ he said. But he knew it might as well be on the other side of the world.

After he rang off Suzanne buzzed him to say that Roy Milburn had called back. ‘He said not to worry, he’d decided he didn’t need to speak to you after all. And another thing, he’d heard from Ms Silverwood about someone called Vera Blackhurst. He asked me to write down a message for you.’

‘Which is?’

‘“I’d love to be a fly on the wall when you speak to Vera’s fancy man.”’

Harry grinned and asked her to call Geoffrey Willatt. He was going to enjoy this conversation.

The Pool Theatre occupied a redbrick Victorian building down a narrow lane off Chapel Street. Once it had been a swimming baths; the conversion had saved it from the bulldozers which ploughed mercilessly through Liverpool in the sixties, reducing much of the city’s history to rubble. Nowadays a number of local amateur dramatic groups put on productions here. The Waterfront Players were, according to the programme which Harry bought from a girl at the main door, a small group formed a couple of years ago. Tonight’s show would be their biggest so far.

A narrow flight of steps led down from the entrance to the passageway with a tiny box office at the end. As Harry picked up the tickets, Kim joined him.

His lips brushed against her cheek. ‘How are you?’

‘Okay, thanks. I’ve spent most of the day trying to put the Scissorman out of my mind.’ She shivered, but then moved her shoulders up and down in a visible effort to shake off the memory of her night’s work. ‘Thanks again for inviting me. I need something to take my mind off the evil that men do.’

‘Let me lighten your day, then.’

He recounted his conversation with Geoffrey Willatt. It had been a joy. As with a play by Harold Pinter, the pauses had counted for as much as the words. He had particularly appreciated the long silence which followed his quoting the deputy matron’s opinion that, for all her tartiness, Vera preyed on rich old men because she was greedy for money and not in the least interested in sex.

‘So what did he say?’

‘That he would take instructions. By that stage, his voice sounded as if there was a garrotte around his neck. And

the rustle of the white flag being hauled up was almost audible.’

She laughed and took a look at their surroundings. Up above, a gallery with iron railings ran around the building at street level, a relic from the old swimming bath. ‘I’ve never been here before, even though it’s only a stone’s throw from the flat. Always meant to come, but somehow or other I never quite made it.’

‘Me too. The things we don’t get round to doing.’

In one corner of the smoke-filled bar, Frances was deep in conversation with Tim Aldred. She was talking nineteen to the dozen; his expression was rapt. Harry wondered if, with Luke gone, the two of them might get together. Frances looked up and caught sight of him. As if reading his mind, she blushed before waving them to come over.

‘I spy the Great Timothy,’ Kim said.

‘Magician and mercy killer. Shall we have a word?’

Frances greeted them warmly and insisted on buying drinks. ‘To celebrate the news about Vera Blackhurst. Your detective has done a good job, Harry.’ She lifted her glass. ‘Here’s to a prosperous future.’

‘Cheers. I’ve spoken to Geoffrey. Somehow I don’t expect Vera’s asking price for a deal will be too high.

‘It’s marvellous. And we need that money so badly.’

‘I gather you’ve talked to Roy. He left a message at my office this morning but we missed each other after that.’

‘Yes, I called him as soon as I put the phone down after speaking to you. His last words were, “See you tonight”, but he hasn’t turned up yet.’

Tim grunted. ‘He’s hopeless.’

Frances smiled. ‘You would do a much better job as treasurer, I’m sure of that. Now, if you’ll excuse me for a few minutes, there are one or two people I ought to say hello to in my capacity as acting chair of the Trust, before the curtain rises. Talk to you later.’

As she moved away, Kim turned to Tim and said, ‘I’ve remembered where we met before.’

He flushed. ‘I didn’t recognise you at Jericho Lane to begin with, but it began to dawn on me that your face was familiar. You were Manny Greenberg’s articled clerk, weren’t you?’

‘It feels like a long time ago.’

‘To me too. But you haven’t changed all that much.’

‘Thank you.’

An awkward silence hung over them like a shroud. Finally Harry said, ‘Kim told me about your mother.’

Tim swallowed. ‘Whatever you may think, whatever the court may have decided, I still believe I did the right thing. She wanted to die. She was in agony. She begged me to put her out of her misery.’

‘I know,’ Kim said and touched his hand. ‘I couldn’t believe the sentence.’

‘I was treated like a common criminal. It was so unjust. The one mistake I made was trying to dress her death up as suicide. I should have come clean from the outset. Lack of guts on my part, I suppose.’

‘I don’t think you lacked guts,’ she said.

‘I feel ashamed of myself. I don’t think it’s logical. As I said, I have no regrets about helping her to do something she was incapable of doing herself. But prison leaves a mark.’

She nodded. ‘It puts you on the outside, however much you regard yourself as a victim of injustice.’

‘That’s right. And it’s why I never talk about it. I’m stigmatised. I dread the idea that people may discuss me behind my back, point a finger, say I murdered my mother, imply that I did it for personal gain.’

‘Did Luke know?’ Harry asked gently.

‘Of course not,’ Tim said. ‘You know what a stickler he was. He would never have understood.’

‘I’m not so sure.’

‘I am. I had enormous respect for him, but he expected everyone else to live by the same standards as he did. If he’d known I’d done time, he would have wanted me off the board.’

‘You shouldn’t assume… Evening, Matthew. Hello, Inge.’

Matthew Cullinan and his girlfriend were arm in arm. He beamed at Harry. ‘Grand to see you again. Frances rang to let me know about Vera Blackhust. Tremendous. I always knew that bloody woman was on the make. I expect now she’ll make herself scarce.’

‘She hasn’t committed any crime,’ Harry pointed out.

Matthew grunted. ‘No smoke without fire, if you ask me.’

Inge Frontzeck patted his shoulder. ‘Perhaps now you can relax, darling.’ She gave them a rueful smile. ‘You’ll never believe how worried he has been about the Trust’s financial difficulties.’

Matthew coloured. ‘I must admit I’ve been bothered about the money side. Hopefully that’s all now in the past. We should be able to negotiate a reasonable share from the Kavanaugh estate.’

‘So now you can enjoy this evening without fretting about how much it has cost the Trust,’ Inge said.

Frances smiled. ‘I’ve only just noticed your ring, Inge. So you two have named the day at last?’

A huge diamond was sparkling on the third finger of Inge’s left hand. She beamed and allowed everyone to inspect it. Matthew squeezed her hand and confessed that he had proposed that very afternoon.

‘To my surprise and delight, she said yes.’

‘He even got down on bended knee to pop the question,’ Inge told them. ‘After that, I didn’t have the heart to refuse.’

‘I’m a great believer in the old traditions,’ her fiancé said.

‘How marvellous!’ Frances said. ‘So we have a double cause for celebration.’

‘We must have a toast,’ Harry said. ‘What would you all like to drink?’

Tim said, ‘Don’t you think we ought to take our seats? The show’s due to start any minute.’

‘You’re quite right,’ Matthew said. ‘Everyone’s moving through. We’ll save the toast for later. Champagne on me, if the theatre bar runs to it.’

As they took up their seats at the far end of the second row, Kim whispered, ‘Call me a bigoted old socialist, but that man Cullinan gives me the creeps.’

‘You’re a bigoted old socialist,’ Harry said. ‘Now be quiet and watch the show.’

He enjoyed the performance much more than he had expected. He’d never been a fan of musicals and occasional viewing of the works of Rodgers and Hammerstein or Andrew Lloyd Webber on the small screen had convinced him that the choice was usually between sentimentality or lush melodrama. A sixties sex comedy with a chorus line of seedy middle-aged businessmen clicking their fingers as they bemoaned the complexities of playing away from home was more to his taste.

‘Like it?’ Tim asked as they queued at the bar during the interval.

‘Mmmm. “Where Can You Take a Girl?” was fun.’

‘At least you and I aren’t married men. We don’t have to feel guilty if - we get involved with someone.’

‘I don’t know about you,’ Harry said, trying to keep Juliet May out of his mind, ‘but sometimes I wish I had cause for a troubled conscience where women are concerned.’

Tim gave a sceptical laugh and then said quietly, ‘Can I speak to you - without prejudice, as you lawyers might say?’

‘Go ahead.’

Tim fiddled with his tie and it dawned on Harry that the other man had made a special effort to look smart this evening. It helped that, for the first time in their acquaintance, he was wearing a suit that seemed the right size.

‘You may have guessed this already…’ Tim bit his lip. ‘You see, the fact is, I’ve become very fond of Frances. I don’t think she realises. Of course, while Luke was alive, she only had eyes for him. I’m not naïve, I knew that she’d never bother with me.’

He paused while Harry gave the barman his order. ‘But what I wanted to say is - do you feel you have to tell her about my past?’

Harry stared. ‘You mean, the business over your mother’s death? Look, it’s history. And the way Kim tells it, you were desperately unlucky. But whatever makes you believe Frances wouldn’t take exactly the same view? She’s a sensible woman, I’m sure if you tell her the full story, she’ll understand. Talk to her. I don’t think you’ll regret it.’

If I had my time again perhaps I should come back as an agony columnist, he thought as he rejoined Kim. Soon he was absorbed again in Neil Simon’s take on the battle of the sexes. The second half of the show entertained him as much as the first. The three-piece band was playing a score written for a thirty-five-strong orchestra, but they made up for lack of numbers with such verve that they managed to drown a couple of the songs. Towards the end, after the latest betrayal of her two-timing boss the heroine sang ‘Whoever You Are, I Love You’ before taking an overdose. As the lyric washed over him, Harry mused about the impulses that can lead a person to end it all. For the hundredth time, he wondered if it was possible that he and Ashley were mistaken and that Luke Dessaur had indeed killed himself. But what could be the reason, what motive was strong enough?

Just before, in time-honoured fashion, Fran and Chuck finally got it together, they performed the duet that everyone in the audience had grown up with. The one in which they agree that what you get when you fall in love is lies and pain and sorrow. So - for at least until tomorrow - they’d never fall in love again. The story of my life, Harry thought as the curtain fell for the last time to continuing applause.

‘Great fun, wasn’t it?’ Frances asked as they made their way out of the auditorium. ‘You two don’t have to rush off home, do you? Come and meet the cast and the backroom team.’

‘They did well,’ Harry said. ‘Tell you the truth, I didn’t expect to enjoy it so much.’

‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘It’s such a relief when you think of the money we’ve invested in it. Far more than I thought wise, frankly.’

Tim nodded. ‘If only Luke had been here today, he could have seen that his faith was vindicated. I must admit that I had my doubts. Musicals are so expensive, even when they are produced on a shoestring and the run is only from Tuesday to Saturday. They must be one of the highest-risk investments of all.’

‘Why was he so keen?’

‘Oh, he insisted that it was precisely the sort of imaginative venture that Gervase Kavanaugh established the Trust to support all those years ago.’

‘That’s right,’ Frances said. ‘The producer persuaded him that the show broke the mould of Broadway musicals, but once its run came to an end it disappeared from sight. The Waterfront Players were strapped for cash and he was keen to back their enterprise. Even though his taste in music was more Bach and Verdi than Bacharach and David.’ Suddenly she caught sight of someone and raised her voice. ‘Bruce! I’ve been looking round for you. Congratulations! A terrific production.’

Bruce was a tall, slender man in a leather jacket and denim jeans who had just been smooching with the leading lady. His face was flushed with champagne and excitement. Harry recognised him from somewhere, and not just because of a passing resemblance to the young John Travolta, but for the moment could not place him.

‘I must admit I’m ecstatic,’ Bruce drawled, extricating himself from the clutches of the girl who had played Fran Kubelik and coming over to join them. ‘Thanks from the bottom of my heart. If it wasn’t for the Kavanaugh Trust, we’d never have been able to make it this far.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you would have managed somehow.’

‘Believe me, it’s true. In terms of conventional box office appeal, Promises, Promises isn’t exactly My Fair Lady or The Phantom of the Opera.’

‘I thought it was more fun than both of them put together.’

‘Me too. Maybe it’s because I come from New York City and I just adore Neil Simon’s one-liners. But whichever way you look at it, we owe the Trust a lot.’

‘It was Luke’s baby. He drove it through, he was the one to thank.’

A shadow passed across Bruce’s face. ‘Yes - yes, of course.’

‘By the way, you know Tim, of course, but have you met Harry Devlin? He’s the Trust’s solicitor and this is his friend Kim Lawrence. Meet Bruce Carpenter - he’s the man who made the whole thing happen. The producer of the show.’

They said hello and then Harry asked casually, ‘I thought I recognised you and now I’ve remembered. Didn’t I see you at Luke’s funeral?’

‘Yeah, I was there.’ Bruce’s smile faded. ‘Well, it was the very least I could do - in the circumstances. Anyway, it’s been great to meet you. And now - I really must circulate.’

As he disappeared, Frances said, ‘A very charming young man. Rather too young and handsome for an old maid like me, but a good talker, that’s for sure. He could get most people eating out of his hand, I suspect.’

‘Is he a full-time producer?’

‘Heavens, no. The Waterfront Players are amateurs. They all need a day job to survive. At the dress rehearsal Bruce told me that he works as a barman. He’d love a career in showbiz, but he needs to keep body and soul together whilst he hopes for a break. Maybe tonight is just what he needs. Everyone seems to have loved the production.’

She sighed and surveyed the crowded room. A champagne cork exploded and Matthew beckoned them over.

‘Come and have a drink with us to celebrate!’

He broke off to kiss his bride-to-be and people cheered. The place was thick with smoke and everyone seemed to be talking at the same time. A press photographer approached the happy couple, but Matthew feigned shielding his face and pointed at Bruce Carpenter, who had rejoined a group of cast members.

‘Please, those are the people you should be taking pictures of. They’ve worked very hard to make tonight such a success.’

Bruce shook his head graciously and said, ‘Like I just said to Frances, we owe it all to you and your friends from the Trust.’

A flashbulb popped anyway, to Matthew’s evident embarrassment. Frances turned to Harry and said, ‘Just one thing bothers me.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Why isn’t Roy here?’

Harry spread his arms. There were other things that were bothering him. For example, he had just remembered that he had seen Bruce Carpenter on another occasion after Luke’s funeral, polishing glasses behind the bar at the Hawthorne Hotel.

Chapter 16

Dale Street didn’t seem the same without Davey Damnation’s wild eyes and pointing finger. As Harry left the magistrates’ court at half eleven the morning after the show, he turned his collar up against the rain and thought about the pavement prophet. The newspapers were full of his story. Davey was the hero who had single-handedly ended a reign of terror that had defeated the police forces of four counties. It was only a question of time before he became a card-carrying darling of the media, a lovable eccentric, perhaps a rent-a-quote pundit on ecclesiastical affairs. And what was wrong with that? At least he’d helped to make sure that the Scissorman would not strike again. Whereas Luke Dessaur’s murderer - if there was one - was still at large. It was time to have another word with Ashley Whitaker. Harry was convinced Ashley knew more than he had yet been prepared to admit and thought he might now be able to guess what it might be.

The Speckled Band was quiet, as usual. Ashley was sitting behind his desk at the back, leafing through an old Inspector French mystery. He waved as Harry walked in.

‘Skiving off work? Don’t worry, my lips are sealed.’

‘I’ve just come from court. My client is an amateur footballer, a very good player. He scored a hat-trick in a vital match and now he’s in trouble with the law because of it.’

Ashley tutted. ‘What went wrong?’

‘He was videotaped scoring the winner. The film was taken by inquiry agents acting for a local authority. Twelve months ago, he sued for crippling injuries he said he’d suffered after stumbling into an uncovered manhole. Claimed he was in constant pain and would never be able to play sport again. He was awarded two years’ salary. A good result, I was delighted with it. Of course, he didn’t tell me he was turning out for this pub team twice a week. Now he’s been sent down for obtaining by deception.’

Ashley chortled. ‘Never mind, the coffee’s on and there are a few old pulp magazines on the shelf behind you, if you’re interested. Good stuff by Joel Townsley Rogers and Jonathan Latimer. Have a browse and a shot of caffeine while you lick your wounds.’

‘Thanks, but I really came to see you rather than the merchandise.’

‘Sounds intriguing.’

‘Specifically, I wanted a word about Luke’s death and the Kavanaugh trustees.’

‘Any more news? I saw a review in the morning paper of the musical Luke was so keen to back. Though there was probably more ink spilled over Matthew Cullinan’s engagement than there was about the show.’

‘He reckons he likes to hide his light under a bushel, but he’s news, isn’t he? Liverpudlian society isn’t exactly swimming with blue blood. As for the other trustees, there’s now a minor mystery about Roy Milburn.’

Ashley’s face became inscrutable, but his tone remained light. ‘Not got himself into another scrape, surely?’

‘Dunno. It seems he’s disappeared.’

‘Hiding from his creditors, I expect. It wouldn’t be the first time.’

Harry perched on a stool. ‘He and I missed each other on the phone yesterday, but Frances Silverwood spoke to him. She wanted to let him know we’ve found out Vera Blackhurst’s past. She has a track record of cashing in on the wills of wealthy old men. The odds are that we’ll be able to strike a deal with her over the Kavanaugh money.’

‘Luke would have been glad about that.’

‘Yes, but it’s by the by. Roy was supposed to be at the Pool Theatre last night, but he failed to turn up. And though I tried to ring him again this morning before I went to court, there was no answer.’

‘I’ve known Roy for a long time,’ Ashley said. ‘He’s a great character, but I wouldn’t ever claim that reliability is one of his virtues. Ten to one, he’s picked up a woman in a pub somewhere and persuaded her to take him home for the night. Going AWOL is nothing new for him. I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you.’

‘I’m not exactly worried. Curious, yes. The Kavanaugh Trust is surrounded by more than its fair share of mysteries.’

‘Shall we have that coffee while we chat?’ Ashley went to the front of the shop and put up the Closed For Lunch sign. ‘Rather early, but I don’t think I’m missing out on too many customers. Keep talking.’

‘For example,’ Harry said as Ashley fiddled with a filter machine in the back room. ‘Why was Luke so keen to put a large chunk of the Trust’s money into a little-known American musical at a time when funds were short?’

Ashley frowned. ‘He did mention it to me. He had a good deal of faith in the Waterfront Players.’

‘Did he ever mention the name of Bruce Carpenter to you?’

‘I can’t recall it. Why?’

‘Carpenter is the producer of Promises, Promises. He accompanied Don Ragovoy to Luke’s funeral. And he works at the Hawthorne Hotel.’

Ashley shrugged. ‘I’m not surprised he attended the funeral. As for the Hawthorne - I don’t see the connection.’

‘Neither do I - yet. But perhaps there is one. I’d started thinking that Luke stayed at the Hawthorne because it was convenient for Roy’s place just around the corner. But if he wanted to see Roy, why not have a quiet word with him after the meeting at the Piquet Club? If Luke wanted to see Carpenter, that might explain why he turned up at the hotel.’

Ashley blinked. ‘To discuss what?’

‘Maybe Roy misled Luke about the Trust’s finances. If he put more money into the show than was wise, he may have wanted to pull the plug. He and Carpenter may have been the pair Julio overheard quarrelling - and Carpenter would have had a motive for murder. The man is crazy about the theatre. He might have flipped.’

‘Ingenious,’ Ashley admitted. ‘But I’m not convinced. As I understand it, Carpenter owed - and still owes - an enormous debt of gratitude to Luke. I can’t imagine them having a serious argument. Besides, if you’re right, why would Luke book an overnight stay? Sorry, but it doesn’t stack up. Anyway, the coffee’s ready.’

After Ashley had poured, Harry said, ‘All right, then, what’s your theory? Let’s assume Luke was murdered. Whodunit?’

Ashley started. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Come on. You’re a murder buff, you’re as bad as me if not worse. You can’t read a report in the papers about a mysterious crime without playing your own guessing game. You regard people who peek at the last page of a detective story long before they’ve finished reading as little better than savages. Your godfather is dead, you believe murdered. You must have ideas about a possible culprit.’

Ashley pursed his lips. ‘I’ve never pointed the finger at anyone.’

‘Would you agree that if Luke was murdered, the truth is likely to have some connection with the Kavanaugh Trust?’

‘It seems an almost inevitable deduction,’ Ashley said. ‘He was retired and lived alone - not the sort of lifestyle where you make enemies. The Trust was his main interest in life.’

‘If we leave aside Bruce Carpenter, then Luke’s fellow trustees are the obvious suspects, given that one of them was deceiving him.’

‘I can’t disagree with what you say,’ Ashley said hesitantly.

Harry finished his drink and put the cup down on the desk. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Ashley, but I’ve felt from the outset that there was something you were keeping from me.’

Ashley’s features had become expressionless. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘I’m used to being lied to,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve had years of practice. It comes with the job. And it’s occurred to me that Luke may have been more forthcoming about his worries with you than with me. He claimed that he hadn’t and my original instinct was to believe him. But you were close, he trusted you. To you, he might just have been prepared to name the person he had in mind, perhaps even spell out what had happened. Talking to a solicitor, his instinct would have been to remain discreet, especially if he had little hard evidence. He wouldn’t want to defame anyone. It wouldn’t fit his sense of propriety.’

Ashley bit his lip. ‘I suppose I owe you an apology. You’ve always been frank with me. Perhaps I should have been more careful to return the compliment.’

‘So Luke did spill the beans?’

‘You’re no fool, Harry. He did use me - well, as a sounding board, I suppose. I did think about telling you, but it didn’t seem fair to the person concerned. Several reasons for that. First, I might have been wrong about Luke having been murdered. I didn’t think so, but I couldn’t be sure. Next,

the things Luke mentioned to me might have had no link whatsoever with his death. I might have pointed you in entirely the wrong direction. And finally, just as Luke was unhappy about blackening someone’s name without being able to prove a thing, so was I. It didn’t seem right.’

‘Might there have been a fourth reason?’

‘Such as?’

‘Perhaps a sense of loyalty to the person in question.’

Ashley flinched. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘Am I on the right track?’

‘Maybe. But explain your reasoning.’

‘The way I see it is this. As far as I know, you only know one of the trustees well. You and Roy Milburn go back years. I’d assume that if you were trying to protect anyone, it would be him.’

A long sigh. ‘Of course, you’re right. But it proves nothing, Harry, let me emphasise that. Just because Luke was unhappy about Roy, it doesn’t necessarily follow that Roy killed him.’

‘Why don’t you tell me the story?’

Ashley shrugged. ‘Now the cat’s out of the bag, I might as well. Luke was bothered about a shortfall in the Trust’s funds. A large sum of money had gone missing. Too much to be explained away as a downturn in investment income. He hadn’t realised how serious things were when he promised to underwrite the musical. When he looked at the detailed figures, he was shocked. Theft was the only possible explanation. Roy fobbed him off with some lame excuse. Luke

knew Roy had been spending quite heavily and it didn’t take much to put two and two together. When he spoke to me, he was thinking of asking a firm of outside accountants to undertake a special audit and find out how much money was involved. He wondered if he should give Roy a chance to make amends and repay whatever he’d taken before matters went any further.’

‘And what was your view?’

‘I thought it was a good idea. Roy is an old friend. I don’t defend him - his behaviour can be appalling. But he’s always been a survivor, managed to avoid really serious trouble. A fraud charge would be something different altogether. Call it foolish if you like, but I hated the idea that he might go to prison.’

‘What did Luke say?’

‘He said he would need to think it over. But yes, I thought he would at least speak to Roy. He didn’t lack a heart. And Roy can charm the birds off the trees when he’s in the mood. I hoped they could work something out between themselves. As long as Roy made amends promptly and resigned as treasurer, Luke might have been willing to leave it at that. He wouldn’t have wanted the Trust to become involved in unseemly publicity if it could be avoided. At the same time, I’m sure he would have insisted on full restitution with the absolute minimum of delay.’

Harry said softly, ‘And what did you think when you heard about Luke’s death?’

Ashley’s face darkened. ‘Does it matter? I think I’ve answered the important question. You were right. Luke had cottoned on to Roy’s defalcations.’

‘I just wondered if you’d discussed with Roy your theory that Luke was murdered.’

Ashley fiddled with his cuff-links. ‘You must understand, this is very difficult for me.’

‘Because you suspect your old friend of having killed your godfather?’

The bookshop was silent as Ashley stared like a blind man at the packed shelves. Presently he cleared his throat and said, ‘I’m sorry, Harry. I suppose I should have said something to you earlier.’

‘Have you confronted Roy?’

A mute nod.

‘And he confessed to you?’

‘No!’ Ashley said fiercely. ‘He did not. He laughed at me, told me I’d always had a vivid imagination. Read too many detective stories for my own good. And then he brushed the whole thing aside and started talking about something else as if what I’d suggested was so absurd as not to deserve more than a moment’s conversation.’

‘But did he convince you he was innocent?’

‘No,’ Ashley said, bowing his head. ‘Not at all.’

Harry scarcely noticed the rain as he walked back through town. Although the sky was dark, in his mind everything was becoming clear at last. The key to the puzzle must be the Kavanaugh Trust’s financial plight. For all his eccentricities, Charles had been as generous a benefactor as his father and had covenanted a monthly lump sum right up until his death. Matthew Cullinan was an experienced investment adviser, whose acumen should have helped to shore up the finances. The cost of subsidising a stage musical might have been heavy, but it should not in itself have bankrupted the Trust. However strong his wish to support the Waterfront Players, Luke would not consciously have authorised a grant that was more than he believed was affordable. As treasurer, Roy was in the best position to milk funds for his own benefits. He was notoriously short of money, but Harry recalled the Rolex and his extravagant mood that lunch-time at the Hawthorne.

Luke had presumably asked Roy to meet him at the Hawthorne and decided to stay there so as to kill two birds with one stone. He could talk to Bruce Carpenter about the musical and then ask Roy how he intended to repay the money he had stolen from the Trust.

But Roy would not have been willing or able to make good the deficit. Easy to imagine his blustering denial of guilt followed by panic when Luke made his disbelief clear. Luke would have been insistent. If Roy could not put matters right, there would be no alternative but to call in the police. For Roy, though, there had been one alternative. The death of Luke, in circumstances that could be passed off as accident or suicide.

As he walked down Fenwick Street, Harry glanced up and caught sight of the old furniture store. For a moment he toyed with the idea of calling there to see if Roy was there. On second thoughts, better not - at least until he had decided how to handle any confrontation. Perhaps it was lucky he had not cottoned on to the truth at the time of his visit to the studio. The railing that ran around the roof of the building was alarmingly low. Roy might have started to make a habit of pushing people to their death.

As he hurried through the main door of the office, still deep in thought, he was stopped in his tracks by the sight of Frances Silverwood in reception. She looked haggard and ill; her eyes were red and she was blowing her nose. A copy of the local morning paper was spread across her knees.

‘What on earth brings you here?’

She looked up and half-rose from her chair. ‘Thank God you’re here. I called you half an hour ago, but I was told you and Jim were both out. Your girl said she didn’t know when either of you would be back. Because it was so important, I decided I’d turn up on the off-chance.’

‘What’s this all about? Is it something to do with Roy Milburn?’

Frances raised her eyebrows. ‘No, nothing at all. Hasn’t he turned up yet?’

‘Not as far as I know,’ Harry said grimly. ‘What, then?’

She lifted the newspaper and Harry saw that it was open at the page with the report of the opening night of Promises, Promises. There was a small picture of Bruce Carpenter together with his leading lady, a much bigger one of Matthew Cullinan toasting his bride-to-be. ‘I take it you haven’t heard?’

‘Heard what?’

Frances swallowed. ‘It’s about Matthew.’

Harry stared. ‘What’s happened to him?’

‘My information is that at this very moment, the honourable Matthew Cullinan is in India. He’s been seconded there for the last twelve months by a cancer charity that he works for, to help with a project to develop a specialist cancer hospital in Madras.’

‘Don’t be silly. We were with him at the Pool Theatre only last night.’

She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid we weren’t. The person we have been dealing with is someone else altogether. He’s an impostor. And now he has disappeared.’

Chapter 17

‘How did you find out?’ Harry asked five minutes later. They had settled in his room and Frances had spread over the desk a copy of the newspaper report which had led to the exposure of the false Matthew Cullinan.

‘I had a call this morning,’ Frances said. ‘From a local journalist, a young man called Des Reeve. He’d read the piece in his own paper about Matthew and Inge announcing their engagement. He was contacting me as acting chair of the Kavanaugh Trust. He said he’d called Matthew - or rather, the person we thought of as Matthew - but as soon as he started to probe, the phone was slammed down. When he tried again, the receiver had been taken off the hook.’

‘What did Reeve tell you?’ Harry asked.

‘Apparently he started his career with one of the tabloid papers in London. When he was working as sidekick for a gossip columnist, he came across Matthew Cullinan. He knew that Matthew had been abroad for a long time and also that the man in the photograph taken last night bore no resemblance to him. Needless to say, he sniffed an exclusive. He sounds young, enthusiastic. I suppose he regards it as his big break. He tracked down Inge’s number and dropped lucky. He spoke to Matthew - sorry, I keep calling him that - and tested him out with a couple of questions. With instant success so far as he was concerned. Matthew panicked. When Reeve couldn’t get through a second time, he decided to get in touch with me.’

‘What did you say?’

‘At first I didn’t believe him. I insisted on ringing off and calling him back at his office to check that it wasn’t some kind of hoax. Whilst I was off the line, he took a message from someone else who had read the press report and reckoned the man in the photograph, far from being the honourable Matthew Cullinan, was someone he’d been to comprehensive school with in Chester. His name’s Gary Cullinan, apparently, and he has about as much blue blood in his veins as you or I.’

‘So you’re convinced?’

‘Oh yes. I’ve never liked journalists. I don’t trust them and this young fellow has an ingratiating manner that didn’t cut any ice with me. But I decided he simply couldn’t have made it up. Although it seemed incredible, once I began to get used to the idea, a good many things that had puzzled me started to make sense.’

‘Such as?’

She puffed out her cheeks for a moment. ‘As you know, he wasn’t above boasting about his family and their money. Yet whenever I asked him about his father, simply to pass the time of day, he would change the subject. It struck an odd note. Looking back now, I realise that he was afraid of making a gaffe that would lead to his being found out.’

‘He certainly fooled me,’ Harry said ruefully. ‘Made me think that I needed to watch my manners whenever I was in his presence. When I went to dinner with Matthew and Inge Frontzeck, I was a nervous wreck beforehand, worrying that I might forget myself and start eating peas off my knife.’

‘Reeve has been busy,’ Frances said. ‘He’s even managed to speak to Lord Gralam himself. The real Matthew hasn’t set foot in England for the past year, but he was on the phone to his father from India only last night. The idea that he might be working in Liverpool seemed to cause his Lordship particular consternation. He’d much rather think that his second son was helping the needy in Madras than sinking in the squalor of Merseyside.’ Frances sighed. ‘It’s sickening to realise how naïve we have all been. Let’s face it, none of us really knew anything about Matthew Cullinan.’

‘What about Inge?’

‘Poor woman. I’m sure she hasn’t the faintest idea about the truth.’

‘Have you tried to call her?’

‘Of course. Reeve was right - her number is unobtainable. Maybe when Matthew took the phone off the hook, she simply didn’t notice it.’

‘We need to talk to her,’ Harry said. ‘Any idea where she might be?’

Frances rubbed her chin. ‘We could try the Cathedral. She has one of the catering concessions there. I remember she once told me she often looks in to make sure everything is under control.’

‘I’ll drive you there. But first we speak to Reeve together, yes? Better make sure of our facts before we start slandering one of the richest families in Britain.’

Des Reeve responded immediately to a call from Frances proposing a discussion about Matthew Cullinan. He suggested they meet in the gardens between Water Street and the parish church and within ten minutes he was greeting them there. He was in his early twenties and had masses of red hair, bright inquisitive eyes and an agreeable manner. Harry thought he resembled a squirrel and it would have been no surprise to see him chewing a conker as he ambled down the path towards them. His handshake was warm and he seemed eager to please. Harry had to remind himself that a squirrel is just a rat with a flair for public relations.

‘You’ll understand that I have to check any allegation that one of our trustees may have acted improperly with the utmost care,’ Frances said. ‘That’s why I’ve asked our solicitor to come along.’

‘Fair enough,’ Reeve said amiably. ‘I’m not surprised you find it hard to credit. You could have knocked me over with a feather this morning when I saw the picture in the paper

and realised someone was passing himself off as Matthew Cullinan.’

‘You’re quite certain about this?’ Harry asked, in his best innocent-until-proved-guilty tone.

‘We’re supposed never to let the facts get in the way of a good story,’ Reeve said with a disarming smile. ‘But the bottom line is that I’ve interviewed Matthew. It was when I was down in London. He’s a decent fellow and he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth - but even if he was richer than Croesus, he’d not be able to afford the plastic surgery to make him look like your chap. He’s a small dark-haired fellow with a cast in his eye. See for yourself.’

He put a hand inside his Oxfam-issue jacket and pulled out a sheet, holding it with exaggerated care lest a gust snatch it away and carry it over the road and into the river beyond. Harry and Frances craned their necks to study it. It was a copy of a fax containing a press paragraph about the charitable deeds of Lord Gralam’s son. The snippet was accompanied by a small head and shoulders photograph.

Harry let out a breath. ‘Even I would have to admit it’s fairly compelling evidence.’

Frances’ eyes widened as she read the clipping and for the first time in their acquaintance Harry heard her swear. ‘Shit. He’s fooled us all.’

Reeve could scarcely conceal his pleasure at their reaction, but he attempted an off-hand tone as he stuffed the clipping away. ‘The real Matthew Cullinan may be no Robert Redford, but as far as I can tell, he’s genuinely caring. Let’s face it, you’d have to be, to spend a year of your life in India raising money for people dying of cancer. He’s been well-known for his charitable activities ever since he left Oxford. Depend upon it, he’s still in Madras.’ A pause. ‘What I’m wondering is - where is Gary Cullinan?’

With caution worthy of any lawyer, Frances said, ‘You realise I can’t disclose the private address of a fellow trustee to a journalist?’

‘Oh, no problem to any reporter worth his salt,’ Reeve grinned. ‘I soon found where our Gary lives. He’s shacked up with Inge Frontzeck, isn’t he? I nipped over to Caldy a little while ago, but no joy. There wasn’t a sign of either of them. My guess is, he’s done a runner. As for her - who knows? Maybe she’s gone with him. Any idea where they might be headed for?’

‘None whatsoever,’ Frances said sharply. The wind was blowing her hair into her eyes and she pushed it angrily away. ‘What you suggest is quite impossible. I’m absolutely sure this will come as a bolt from the blue to Inge. She’s been betrayed - like the rest of us.’

The wind was sharpening and Harry turned up his coat collar. ‘So what do you know about Gary Cullinan?’

‘Not much yet. I’m due to see the chap who gave us his name later today. Then I may be able to start piecing the story together. The way it looks at the moment, our Gary reinvented himself in order to do a spot of fortune-hunting. He chose well, didn’t he? Uwe Frontzeck’s daughter must be one of the wealthiest young women in the North-West.’

‘She’ll be heartbroken,’ Frances muttered.

‘She might find it helps to talk about it all,’ Reeve said in a pious tone. ‘Here’s a card with my number. If she contacts you, would you ask her to give me a ring straight away? I’m sure she has a story to tell that our readers would love to hear.’

Half an hour later, Harry was walking through a tunnel lined with tombstones. He was completing a circuit of the Anglican Cathedral while Frances comforted Inge Frontzeck. The pathway that led down from the visitors’ entrance passed underground for a short distance before sweeping out and round into a former graveyard which was now an area of parkland. He emerged into the open air and spotted the two women ahead of him, sitting on a bench, Inge’s head on Frances’s shoulder.

This place had once been a quarry; in Liverpool’s pomp, much of the stone for its finest buildings had come from here. Later it had become St James’s Cemetery, last resting place for many of the city’s great and good. For the most part, their memorials remained: crosses, obelisks, small monuments. But Harry knew that there were catacombs here too, in which countless ordinary men and women had been interred and then forgotten.

He glanced up to his left and saw a pastiche Doric temple. The Oratory: a grand name for the old mortuary chapel, but Liverpudlians never did things by halves. Over his shoulder on the right loomed a place that always made him shiver. With its huge sandstone towers, the Cathedral was a house of God that inspired awe like no other.

Ahead of him, Frances looked up and caught his eye. She gave an imperceptible nod. On the way here, they had agreed that she would talk to Inge on her own before Harry started putting any questions. They could not be sure how Inge would react to the news that her lover was a fraud.

Inge’s head was bowed, but as he approached, he saw that her cheeks were glistening with tears. He exchanged a glance with Frances. She put a finger to her lips.

Presently Inge said in a small voice, ‘Sorry. It’s childish to cry. I suppose I should have known it was all too good to be true.’

Frances put her hand on the younger woman’s. ‘He deceived all of us.’

‘I love him, you know. Even now - I can’t find it in me to stop loving him.’

Frances bit her lip. ‘Men are like that,’ she said fiercely. ‘The more plausible they are, the more they hurt you.’

Spoken with feeling, Harry thought. Aloud, he said, ‘Are you able to talk about - what happened this morning?’

‘I was in the shower when I heard the phone ring,’ Inge said. He could tell she was striving to compose herself, but there was no disguising the tremor in her voice. Her life was being put through a shredder. ‘Matthew - sorry, but what else can I call him? - answered it. I couldn’t hear what was said. When I was dressed, I came downstairs and he was getting ready to go out. I asked who had called and he fobbed me off, said it was a business associate. Of course I never dreamed it had been someone from the Press. He told me he would have to go out to organise a business deal. It had cropped up unexpectedly and he had to deal with it at once. I was surprised, but of course I didn’t question him closely. I - I’ve always trusted him implicitly.’

Her face crumpled. There were lines round her eyes and mouth that Harry had never seen before. ‘My God, what an idiot I have been. I will be a laughing stock.’

Frances put an arm round her and Harry said, ‘I realise this is difficult for you. If you’d rather not discuss…’

‘No,’ Inge said. ‘I need to talk. I have to make some sense of it all. He - he said he would need to stay overnight and he’d be back tomorrow. I offered to help him pack, but he said it wasn’t necessary. Ten minutes later, he was on his way. He said he was driving to the station.’

‘I expect he was telling the truth,’ Frances said. ‘My guess is that he will want to put as much space between himself and Liverpool as possible now that he’s been found out.’

‘Did you really have no idea that he had been lying to you?’ Harry asked.

Inge closed her eyes. ‘I suppose that subconsciously, I already had a great many doubts about him. There were so many things that didn’t add up. I’d been uneasy for a long time, but I’d been afraid to admit to myself the reason why.’

‘Presumably he kept you well away from any members of his family?’

‘Yes, you are right. I could never understand it. I’ve always been close to my parents and it was strange that whenever I suggested going down to see Lord Gralam or his elder brother, he made an excuse. I assumed it was just the way upper-class English families behave. They keep themselves to themselves. And I was amused by the way he never seemed to have any money.’

Frances stroked her jaw thoughtfully. ‘Looking back, I see it now. We all assumed he was wealthy, but there was precious little hard evidence. I seldom saw him putting his hand in his pocket, even though he always dressed well and seemed to have an expensive lifestyle.’

‘Who do you think paid for that lifestyle?’ Inge asked wearily.

‘He lived with you, of course.’

‘And off me. The flat is mine. He never even contributed towards the upkeep. He always had an explanation for being short of ready cash. Something to do with the strict terms of the trust funds his father had set up. I never understood the details. He told me that even when he needed money, he was too proud to plead with his own flesh and blood. He would rather be on the bread-line. There was a story about a rift between them, something to do with Matthew yearning to do charity work whilst his father wanted him to be something in the City. I felt sorry for him, being deprived simply because he wasn’t prepared to kow-tow to the old man. So I was always willing to help him out. My own father did express his concern once or twice, but I brushed it aside. Love is blind. Stupid, too.’

She let out a long sigh before adding, ‘There was more. Occasionally I would catch him out in a little lie. Usually it was about something trivial. An old college friend he claimed to have been talking to or a business deal that he was trying to pull off. He always liked to impress me - but sometimes he overdid it. Believe it or not, I was rather touched. I thought it was sweet that, with his impeccable background, he would want to show off to me. It’s stupid, but he made me feel good.’

‘That’s the art of the confidence trickster,’ Frances said. ‘He tried to convince us all that he was bestowing an honour merely by talking to us.’

‘No wonder he claimed to be publicity-shy,’ Harry said.

‘That always appealed to me,’ Inge said. ‘He used to say he wasn’t seeking public approval for his charity work. I admired his unselfishness, his modesty.’

Harry thought that Matthew had never seemed too modest when not threatened by the risk of public exposure. It was a contradiction that had always troubled him, and yet he’d never guessed the explanation. ‘But he got carried away by the engagement and the excitement of yesterday evening. No wonder he cringed when the photographer insisted on snapping him. He must have been half-afraid that his luck would finally run out.’

Inge said softly, ‘Shall I tell you what hurts me most?’

‘What’s that?’ Frances asked.

‘I don’t know anything about him. Nothing at all. Last night I thought I was going to marry him and now he’s gone. I may know his real name. But this - Gary Cullinan - is a complete stranger to me.’

For a time none of them spoke. The skies were darkening and lights gleamed from the Cathedral windows high above the hollowed-out park. Spots of rain were beginning to fall, but the wind had died and the only sound was the hum of the cars of kerb-crawlers cruising Gambier Terrace, looking for business.

Harry cleared his throat and said, ‘The question is: what do we do now? Try to find him? Call the police?’

Frances winced. ‘Heaven knows what harm this episode will do to the Trust. As if we haven’t had enough to contend with lately.’

Inge said, ‘The last thing I want right now is to see him again. I need time to think things over. And to talk with my family.’

‘Of course you do,’ Harry said. ‘But remember, the journalist has his teeth into the story. He won’t let go. You’ll have to decide before long whether you’re willing to speak to him.’

Inge coloured. ‘Kiss and tell?’

‘Not at all. But odious as it may seem, sometimes it’s better to be frank with the Press rather than giving them the chance to make up the news. You know how they define a good story? Something that someone somewhere doesn’t want them to know.’

Inge hauled herself to her feet and pulled her coat tightly around her. ‘Very well. I’ll consider it. But please, don’t call the police. Not yet, anyway. There’s probably no need. After all, as far as I know, I’m Gary Cullinan’s only real victim.’

Harry said nothing. But he couldn’t help wondering if she was right.

Chapter 18

After Inge had left them, Harry and Frances walked in silence along the path that curved under the shadow of the Cathedral. They were only a stone’s throw from the red light area where Davey Damnation had confronted the Scissorman. In his mind he could hear Davey’s echoing voice.

‘I am he that liveth and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore, Amen; and have the keys of hell and of death!’

Hadn’t Shakespeare said that the devil can cite scripture for his purpose? Harry moved his shoulders up and down, as if it might help him to concentrate on the problem that had brought him here.

‘Wasn’t it Luke’s idea to invite Matthew Cullinan to become a trustee?’ he asked.

‘Yes, he took the fellow at face value. It was quite a coup to have an investment expert offering his services free of charge. And naturally, it did the Trust no harm to have an aristocrat on the board.’ She paused and said grimly, ‘I suppose that if he’s a rogue, that may explain what happened to the Trust’s money.’

‘But Roy is the treasurer,’ Harry objected. His conversation with Ashley was still fresh in his mind, although he did not want to muddy the waters by revealing the suspicions which Luke had confided in his godson. ‘He would have had to approve any expenditure.’

‘Come on,’ Frances said scornfully. ‘Let’s face it, Roy’s an alcoholic. He couldn’t look after a child’s piggy-bank properly. Matthew - Gary - whatever his name is - will have been able to do exactly as he pleased. I’ll call in the auditors to check over our books as a matter of urgency. We’ll have to talk to the Charity Commission too. I suppose I ought to speak to Roy, though frankly I doubt if he’ll have anything worthwhile to contribute.’

‘Assuming that you find him.’

She halted in mid-stride and turned to face him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He missed the show last night, didn’t he? And I’ve tried to contact him by phone today with no joy. Ashley Whitaker reckons that he’s gone off with some floozie, but I’m not so sure.’

‘He’ll turn up,’ she said with a shrug. ‘The proverbial bad penny.’

She started walking again in the direction of the car park. Harry hesitated before following her. He looked up at the forbidding bulk of the Cathedral. Again he felt a chill of unease, again he heard in his brain the voice of Davey Damnation.

‘And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God; and the books were opened!’

He sucked in a breath of the cold afternoon air and told himself that he must stop expecting the worst. He must dismiss the dread that lurked at the back of his mind, the cold fear that the killing was not yet at an end.

‘So we weren’t rubbing shoulders with the nobility after all,’ Jim Crusoe said as they had a coffee together back in the office. ‘I should have realised.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Last time I attended a trustees’ meeting, I mentioned to him that Heather and I were thinking of taking a weekend break in Oxford. I knew he’d been to university there, so I asked his advice on hotels and the best places to visit. He was amazingly vague and I remember thinking to myself that it had been a waste of time plucking up the courage to ask the question. I’d picked up more from watching Inspector Morse. But of course I didn’t draw the right conclusion. I thought he was simply too grand to take much notice of the sort of places that would fascinate an ordinary tourist. What’s the betting he’s never been near Oxford in his life?’ Jim sighed. ‘So the man who was supposed to be the saviour of the Kavanaugh Trust was the one who bankrupted it.’

‘Why do you think that?’

‘Obvious, isn’t it? He’s ripped off Inge Frontzeck over the last few months. He had the know-how and opportunity to do the same to the Kavanaugh Trust.’

‘Luke thought that Roy Milburn was on the take from the Trust,’ Harry said.

He recounted the story Ashley Whitaker had told him. Jim listened closely, his craggy face giving no clue to his thoughts.

‘So Luke was mistaken. Nobody’s perfect.’

‘But he was a careful man,’ Harry said. ‘It wouldn’t be like him to accuse someone unless he was sure.’

‘He was circumspect when he talked to you,’ Jim pointed out. ‘He was obviously confident that he could rely on Ashley’s discretion. As well as the fact that Roy was an old friend of Ashley’s.’

‘I suppose so. It troubles me, though. Who killed Luke? And why has Roy disappeared?’

‘Luke is six feet under. There’s no forensic evidence to suggest he was killed. As for Roy, my guess is that he’s gone off on a bender somewhere. Or maybe he’s seen sense and checked in to a drying-out clinic.’

‘Now who’s letting his imagination roam?’ Harry hesitated. ‘You know, even if Matthew was the one robbing the Trust, that doesn’t necessarily exonerate Roy. He could have been at it as well. Luke may have asked him round to the Hawthorne, challenged him - and been pushed out of the window for his cheek.’

‘You know yourself it’s impossible to prove that, one way or another.’

The coffee had a bitter taste but Harry swallowed the last of it anyway. A kind of penance for not seeing the obvious sooner. ‘I suppose you’re right. But I’m sure I’ve missed something. Luke could have tumbled to the truth about Matthew himself, after he spoke to Ashley. He must have found that he had two problems to contend with. Not just a treasurer on the take, but a bogus financial adviser.’

‘You’re surely not suggesting that would have driven him to suicide?’

‘No. But maybe Roy wasn’t the only one with a motive to murder Luke. I never considered that the honourable Matthew was a serious suspect. But Gary Cullinan may have been.’

Jim raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘Any idea where he’s got to?’

‘Des Reeve was going to speak to the man who gave him Cullinan’s name after meeting Frances and me. Let’s give him a ring to see if he’s learned anything more.’

But the message from the newspaper office was that Reeve had not come back in that afternoon and was not expected at his desk again until the next morning. Harry tried Roy Milburn’s number again but it kept ringing out. He gnawed at his fingernails in frustration. The need to do something was as insistent as a hunger pain.

‘I’ll go round and have a look at Roy’s flat. See if there’s any clue as to where he might be.’

‘Wasting your time, aren’t you? He won’t have left a note on the door telling the milkman not to deliver and by the way, he’s nipped off to Blackpool to spend the money he’s stolen from the Trust.’

Harry gave his partner a wan smile. ‘Maybe not, but anything’s worth a try.’

Jim’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s eating you?’

‘You’ll think I’m being melodramatic.’

‘I always think that.’

‘Roy has been flush with money recently, right? Perhaps it’s not because of his ill-gotten gains from the Kavanaugh Trust.’

Jim considered. ‘You reckon he may have been blackmailing Matthew? Or Gary or whatever we are supposed to call him?’

‘Why not? He likes to poke his nose into other people’s business. If he thought Gary Cullinan had killed Luke rather than face exposure, he would have been more likely to try to cash in on his deduction than run off to the police. When I last talked to him, he actually said, “Knowledge is power.”’

‘So you think he may have pushed his luck too far?’

‘Possible, isn’t it? If Gary had killed once to preserve his secret, he probably wouldn’t scruple at a second crime.’

Jim groaned. ‘You said it yourself. You’re eternally melodramatic. You’re going on a wild goose chase.’

‘I expect you’re right,’ Harry said, but he did not really believe it.

The old furniture shop was still deserted. Harry walked down the passageway at the side of the building, but found the back door locked. On balance, he decided, this was reassuringly consistent with the theory that Roy had disappeared on a frolic of his own and had not fallen victim to a desperate attempt by Gary Cullinan to conceal his imposture.

And yet - instinct told him that this was a story which would not have a happy ending. He leaned on the padlocked gate at the bottom of the alley and wondered what to do. Rain was falling steadily now and one by one the lights in neighbouring blocks were going out as people working in the city set off for home. Some of them walked past the top of the passageway, but none glanced down it.

The easy course would be to walk back to the street and head back to Empire Dock. But he knew that if he did that, he would not be able to settle until he could be sure that nothing untoward had happened to Roy Milburn. At least not here. He stood on tiptoe and peered over the top of the gate. It gave on to a tiny yard containing a bunker, a couple of dustbins and an ironwork fire escape. Harry recalled from his last visit that the stairway led to the roof. Why not climb it and just check that there were no signs of disturbance in Roy’s studio?

Fortunately there was no barbed wire on top of the gate. If the receivers of the furniture business were relying on Roy for security, they were making a false economy. A few old bricks were lying around in the passageway and he used them as a platform to haul himself up and over the gate. He dropped down heavily on the other side: the aching of his knee joints as he hit the ground reminded him that he was neither as young nor as fit as he used to be.

The steps of the fire escape were sleek with rain and he took care to grip the cold railing as he began his ascent, remembering that Roy had described it as a death trap. He had no wish to emulate Luke by plunging to his doom from a great height. It occurred to him that it would be a good idea not to look down.

Slow as a septuagenarian, he made his way up towards the roof. When he reached the top he was out of breath, as much because of the tension he could not help feeling as the steepness of the steps. He squatted on his haunches at the foot of the flagpole, trying to recover his breath.

The last time he had come on to the rooftop had been in daylight. In the dark, it seemed different, shadowy and sinister. The wind was much stronger than before and Harry remembered that the guardrail around the roof had been low. A fierce gust coming in from the river might pick up even a grown man and toss him to the street below. And what was the noise coming from the direction of the fire escape? Was it possible that someone had followed him here?

He shivered and told himself not to allow imagination to conquer common sense. Jim was bound to be right. Roy had skipped and this was a waste of time. It would be absurd to peer down the fire escape and try to detect a non-existent pursuer. He clambered to his feet and squared his shoulders before walking across the roof to the window of Roy’s studio.

The room was in darkness. The curtains had been drawn, but there was a crack between them. Harry peered through it. He could not see much, but it was possible to make out that there was someone sprawled across the sofa. A man who might perhaps be asleep - but Harry did not think so.

‘Oh God,’ he said.

Even as the words left his lips, he heard something behind him. Fear paralysed him. No doubt about it this time. Someone really had followed him up the fire escape. For a moment he thought he was about to throw up. He bit his bottom lip hard as he fought to master his terror. He could taste his own blood. It was no time to surrender to a man who had killed before.

It’s him or me, he thought.

Then he turned, lowered his head and charged towards the dark figure who stood at the top of the iron stairway. But the other man saw him coming all the way and raised a gloved fist as he swerved to avoid a collision. Harry hit the guardrail and lost his footing. He felt himself falling and the last thing that passed through his mind before he lost consciousness was that now he would never know whether Gary Cullinan had killed Roy - or the other way around.