‘So what’s the story with you and Mrs May?’ Gina asked as Juliet and Casper strolled off in the direction of the restaurant and VIP lounge, accompanied by the theme to Close Encounters of the Third Kind.
‘Story?’
‘Why did she want to muscle into our conversation when her husband obviously couldn’t give two shits? Is she after your body, or what?’
‘My expense account couldn’t compete with Casper May’s.’
‘But she’s not married to him any more, is she? And what’s that all about anyway? Why divorce a bloke, then swan around posh bars with him?’
‘Juliet’s a lady with expensive tastes. She likes the lap of luxury.’
‘She won’t be dropping into your lap, then?’
‘Not any time soon. Her boyfriend is some hunk who acts in a soap.’
‘I don’t get it. There’s something between you.’ She moved closer, scrutinising his face for clues. ‘Come on, I saw it in the way she looked at you. Like she’d been rummaging through a cupboard and found a pair of shoes she’d forgotten she ever had.’
‘Thanks for the ego boost.’
‘Listen, women like that are crazy about shoes. Can’t see it myself, give me a pair of Nike trainers any day.’
‘Women like that?’
‘You know. Glossy, upmarket. Women who can afford to spend a small fortune on a nip and tuck whenever something starts to sag or droop.’ A bitchy grin. ‘Shame about the trout pout. She looks as though she stuck her gob in a wasp’s nest.’
He couldn’t help flinching.
‘Go on, then. Do you and Lady Muck have…a past?’
He had no intention of telling her or anyone else about his affair with Juliet. Some doors needed to stay shut forever. ‘You’re a scary cross-examiner. More like leading counsel than a cleaning lady. Or, should I say, a premises regeneration executive?’
‘You liked that?’
‘Loved it.’
‘I couldn’t resist. Anyway, there’s your image to think about. It wouldn’t do for a respectable solicitor to get a name for buying drinks for humble cleaning ladies.’
‘Who said I’m respectable?’
‘Oh my God, are you denying it? Lee and I agreed, you can figure out everything you need to know about the people you clean for. I don’t mean earwigging at doors or snooping through their wastepaper baskets. It’s about the way they treat you.’
‘Tell me more about Lee.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘What sort of woman was she? Did you like her?’
‘What do you mean? I told you, she was my closest friend!’
Her voice became strident and a grey-haired man in the next booth with his arm round a fat girl in a very low-cut top looked round to see if anything was wrong. Harry glared and he turned back to contemplating his companion’s milky cleavage.
‘Sorry, Gina.’ His cheeks were burning. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘I mean, yesterday evening, you found me crying after I heard the news. I couldn’t take it in. And you ask if I liked her?’
Protesting too much? ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No.’ She swallowed hard. He could see her mind working; he’d seen the same expression on a thousand clients’ faces. How much to say, how much to conceal? ‘You don’t need to apologise. I mean, you’re smarter than you look.’
He waited, said nothing.
‘Matter of fact, you’re right. I never thought about it before. Because you should like your friends, shouldn’t you? Nothing else makes sense. And I did like her, most of the time, of course I did. But…she could be difficult.’
‘How?’
‘Lee was ambitious. She told me that, every night since she was a kid, she’d dreamt of becoming an actor. And nothing was going to stop her. All she needed was a stroke of luck.’ Gina bowed her head. ‘Won’t happen now, will it?’
‘When did you find out Lee was dead?’
‘Shaz texted me yesterday afternoon. She was Lee’s supervisor. When I rang her back, she said the police had spoken to her and they had a preliminary ID. There was stuff in Lee’s handbag that told them who she was. And a payslip from the cleaning company.’
‘So whoever killed her didn’t rob her?’
‘Some money was taken, according to Shaz. And her Rolex.’ Gina’s face crumpled. ‘She was so proud of that watch, it was brand new.’
‘Not a fake?’
‘She said not. But most of her bits and pieces were left with…the body.’
‘Have the police talked to you?’
‘No reason why they should. There’s nothing I can tell them.’
‘You’re her friend.’
‘But I don’t know anything about the murder, do I? Anyway, Shaz didn’t give them my name. Cleaners and the police don’t mix. A lot of the girls work under false names. It’s the tax, you know.’
He grinned. ‘And do you have an alias for the taxman?’
She burst into a fit of the giggles. ‘Harriet Houdini, who else?’
‘Never thought I’d get to buy Harriet Houdini a vodka and lime. Care for another?’
Her face was flushed, her voice growing louder. The alcohol had ironed out her inhibitions. ‘Trying to get me pissed so you can have your wicked way with me?’
‘Would you believe me if I said no?’
She considered. ‘Know something? I think I would. Anyway, who cares? Same again.’
When he came back from the bar, he caught sight of the grey-haired man in the next booth putting his hand up his girlfriend’s tent-like skirt. The man’s face had disappeared in his companion’s hair. Her eyes were fixed firmly on Tom Cruise.
Gina asked, ‘You’re not seriously trying to get me pissed, are you?
‘No, promise. See, I’m on grapefruit juice already.’
‘I’m out later tonight.’
‘Oh, yeah? Hot date?’
He shook his head. ‘Not exactly.’
‘You’re not married, are you?’
‘How did you guess?’
She fingered the rim of her glass. ‘Mmmm. You don’t have the shifty look of a married man on the make. I could almost believe you’re interested in talking to me for the sake of it.’
‘It’s true.’
She shot him a heard-it-all-before glance. ‘Not entirely true, though? I mean, why are you asking all these questions about Lee?’
‘Once upon a time, I was married, but my wife left me for another man. I always dreamt we’d get back together, but one night someone stabbed her to death.’
‘Shit.’
‘For a few days the police suspected me of killing her. I made it my business to find out why Liz died. It was a sad story. The reasons for murder usually are.’
‘That’s terrible.’ Her hand crept across the table to cover his. Her touch was soft and warm.
‘It was a long time ago. But ever since, I suppose I’ve been obsessed with murder. The people who commit it. And their victims.’ He withdrew his hand. ‘Hard to explain better than that. You probably think I’m as bad as Victor Creevey.’
‘Honest, you’re nothing like him.’
He sipped his juice, the grapefruit sharp on his tongue. ‘The smart money says that Lee and Denise Onuoha were killed by the same man.’
‘Racing certainty, isn’t it?’ She gave a theatrical shiver. ‘Serial crimes…’
‘Does the name Aled Borth mean anything to you?’
‘Should it?’
‘I saw him reading the report which identified Lee this afternoon. The news seemed to shock him. As if her name meant something to him.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Around fifty, works as a cinema organist. Single, never been married, as far as I know.’
‘A loser?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘No reason.’
‘Ever heard Lee speak about Borth?’
‘Never.’
Her voice was flat and emphatic. He’d heard that tone so many times before in police interview rooms. She was holding something back about Lee, but he guessed that if he pushed too hard, she’d walk out and refuse to talk to him again.
‘You can’t protect her now, Gina. She’s beyond that.’
She flushed. ‘You think I don’t realise? I’ve never heard of Aled Borth, let’s leave it at that.’
‘OK. Sorry, I know it’s hard, the loss of someone you were close to. Whatever their faults, however angry they made you feel.’
She shook her head. Not listening, following her thoughts. ‘You wouldn’t believe it, would you? It was Lee’s idea to come back to Liverpool. She said if we weren’t careful, we’d finish up on the game, working to keep a gang of Albanian pimps in cocaine. Lee said we’d be safe back home.’ Gina turned to him, her pretty face twisted with pain. ‘How fucking wrong can you be?’
The Waterloo Alhambra was a mock-Moorish palace shoehorned between a car repair workshop and a doctor’s surgery in a narrow street that ran down to the waterfront. Harry contemplated the ornate carved red brickwork and the elegant columns, mentally transporting himself to the sun-splashed hills and terraces of Granada. The illusion was shattered by a slap of wind from the Irish Sea and the smells from a kebab house half a dozen doors away.
Built in the days of Cecil B De Mille by an architect with a similar fondness for the epic, the Alhambra had shut its doors when movie-going fell out of fashion in the Seventies and suffered an inglorious reincarnation as a bingo hall and bar. When the owners called time on bingo, a group of enthusiasts had set up a charity to lease the premises and restore the Alhambra to former glories. Five years later, to everyone’s amazement, including their own, the venture flourished. Sidney Rankin, the chairman of trustees, and universally known as El Sid, was a friend of Harry’s from days when they’d played together in the same student football team. Sid had recommended Aled Borth to consult Harry for legal advice, something all three of them had come to regret.
In the foyer, Sid’s favourite song was playing. He’d picked it as a signature tune for the Alhambra after reading somewhere the – no doubt apocryphal – story that Ray Davies had been inspired to write the lyrics by the Mersey, not the Thames, as everyone thought.
‘But I don’t need no friends,
As long as I gaze on Waterloo sunset,
I am in paradise.’
From a vantage point outside the bar, he spotted Ceri as she walked into the foyer. Green silk blouse and chiffon scarf around her neck, black trousers and sparkly sandals, casual chic for a summer evening. A couple of heads turned in her direction. She must be accustomed to attention, both in and out of court, but it didn’t seem to mean anything to her. Their eyes met and she smiled.
‘This place is amazing, isn’t it? Ten years I’ve lived in Merseyside and I’ve never come here once. I feel ashamed. Thanks for inviting me.’
‘What would you like to drink?’
‘Just an orange juice, please. I’m driving.’
The bar was an extravaganza in marble, the walls festooned with black and white stills from films dating from the Alhambra’s heyday. Harry contemplated a shot of Robert Donat handcuffed to Madeleine Carroll in The Thirty-Nine Steps. He’d travelled here by cab, so he could allow himself another beer. He joined Ceri at a corner table beneath a picture of Claude Rains twitting Bogart in Casablanca. She was studying a what’s-on leaflet with the concentration she devoted to everything she did.
‘So you have a season ticket for a series of films for paranoiacs, Harry? What should I read into that, I wonder?’
‘Last week I saw The Parallax View. A man driven to his doom by this sinister and ruthless, all-powerful organisation. An allegory for the Legal Services Commission’s campaign against legal aid?’
She laughed. ‘You really do think the bad guys are after you, then?’
‘It’s been one of those days.’ He considered. ‘One of those weeks. One of those careers.’
‘Borth was asking the impossible, expecting you to cross-examine Afridi into confusion. What he doesn’t know about pharmacokinetics isn’t worth knowing. You did your best.’
‘It’s not that, it’s…well, never mind. Thanks for keeping me company this evening.’
‘My pleasure.’ She considered him. ‘If something is on your mind, why not share it with me?’
‘It’s nothing. Forget it.’
‘Harry, you’re troubled. It’s as plain as if you’d scrawled a message on your shirt. Don’t bottle it up, that’s always a mistake. Work problems, relationship problems, money problems, you mustn’t let them get on top of you. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. My husband…’
Her voice trailed away for a few moments as she became lost in thought. Harry didn’t know what to say.
‘You’d be amazed at the lengths people go to when they are desperate.’
‘You must see a lot of bad stuff.’
‘You’ve no idea. In the past two or three years alone, we’ve had death by antifreeze poisoning, by circular saw, even by a home-made guillotine, would you believe?’
Harry shuffled his feet. Time to shift the conversation away from suicide.
‘I remember a poem from when I was at school. Talked about work as a toad, squatting on the poet’s life. Who wants to sell their soul to a toad?’
She laughed. ‘The snag is, you can’t adjust your work–life balance like twiddling a knob on a thermostat. I know I take my own work to heart too much. It’s just that I love my job. I’d never want to do anything else. So – is it life at Crusoe and Devlin that’s bugging you?’
‘Not exactly.’ He took a breath. ‘On Monday someone warned me that I’m about to die.’
‘You’re not serious?’
‘On Midsummer’s Eve.’
She stared. ‘These are threats you’re receiving? Hate mail? Have you informed the police?’
‘Jim Crusoe reckons it’s kids, playing tricks. Possibly he’s right. And yet…it’s getting under my skin.’
So, he’d made his confession. Until this moment he had refused to admit that he was rattled, let alone that there was anything to be rattled about. A master of the art of self-deception. But at the back of his mind, two words nagged away.
Midsummer’s Eve, Midsummer’s Eve, Midsummer’s Eve.
‘What’s happened?’
He told her about the announcement of his death, the message on his answering machine, the trashing of his room. As he talked, he was struck by the triviality of the incidents that had turned his life upside down. Nobody hurt, no damage done. The police would laugh in his face if he asked for help, let alone for protection from some unknown foe. He should have kept his mouth shut.
‘What is so special about Midsummer’s Eve?’
‘God knows. I don’t dance around Stonehenge naked to celebrate the summer solstice, that’s for sure.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ she said. ‘Do you know of anyone who bears you a grudge?’
‘Leaving Aled Borth aside?’
‘If he wanted to take revenge on anyone, Malachy Needham would be the obvious candidate.’
He shrugged. ‘Tom Gunter?’
‘Gunter?’ Her eyes opened very wide. ‘Your former client? But…what makes you mention him?’
‘I saw him yesterday. He was in a weird mood. Maybe he’d taken a line of cocaine. He gave the impression he had something to do, something on his mind.’
‘Such as?’
‘At the time, I wondered if he’d nipped into the office and dropped off the mock-obituary. When I saw him in the gardens, I made the mistake of asking him if he’d written it.’
‘Why would he bear you a grudge?’
They’d talked about Tom Gunter the last time they’d met. Ceri had conducted the inquest into the death of the neighbour he’d been acquitted of killing and it was clear to Harry that the experience rankled. She’d called Tom to give evidence, but on the advice of his new lawyers, he kept his arms folded and his mouth shut. Most witnesses could be wheedled into answering questions, even after they had been cautioned about self-incrimination, in the mistaken belief that they were smarter than the person asking them. But Tom Gunter was too street-wise to fall into that trap. In the end, Ceri had to resort to a narrative verdict, outlining the factual circumstances in which the woman had met her death. No question of pointing a finger at Tom. The law said he was innocent, and what Ceri or Harry might think about justice counted for nothing.
‘I don’t think he forgave me for suggesting he should plead guilty to manslaughter. He’s violent, unpredictable.’
She shook her head. ‘He kept himself under perfect control at the inquest. Cool as ice.’
‘He had time to prepare. If things don’t go as he expects, who knows how someone with a temper like Tom will react? My guess is, that’s how he came to kill his neighbour. He lost it, simple as that.’
She almost choked on the last of her juice. ‘Better be careful what you say, Harry. Don’t forget, he was acquitted.’
The rebuke was gentle, but it stung him. Better change tack.
‘All right, you’ve convinced me, I need to get this Midsummer’s Eve nonsense into perspective.’ He swallowed the last of his drink. ‘Come on. Time to watch Polanski losing his mind.’
Harry’s heart sank as he recognised the voice. He and Ceri were in the throng jostling for the exit. It was past midnight and he was ready for home. But Aled Borth was right behind them.
Harry turned. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘Changed my mind. They might not need me to play the organ when they show this late night foreign muck, but I thought I’d show my face.’ Borth smelt as though he’d spent the past two hours in the bar. ‘And I didn’t expect to see you squiring the lovely coroner. No, I certainly did not.’
Ceri gave him a civil nod. ‘Good evening, Mr Borth.’
‘I mean, I’m entitled to wonder, aren’t I? This man Needham got away with murder, but what do you two care?’
His voice was becoming louder. People were glancing towards them and nudging each other. Sid Rankin, red-faced and portly, was queueing a few feet away. Harry caught his eye and the chairman pushed through to join them.
‘Harry, Aled. Nothing wrong, I hope?’
‘My friend and I are just leaving,’ Harry said.
‘It’s a scandal!’ Aled called out. ‘They are hand in glove, all of them. Conspiring to hide the truth. It’s a cover-up.’
Sid Rankin seized Aled’s arm. After he stopped playing football, he’d taken up refereeing and earned a name as an old school disciplinarian. The least murmur of dissent saw him whip out the red card; he’d once sent off a whole team.
‘Aled, you’ve made your point. These good people have come here for a pleasant evening. Let it go.’
Aled shrugged off Sid’s grip. He was stronger than he looked. He stared at Harry and Ceri with contempt.
‘You haven’t heard the last of this. You let justice be cheated, and you’ll have to pay the price!’
The scrum in front of them was clearing. Harry gave Sid a quick nod of thanks and guided Ceri through the doors and into the street.
‘Sorry about that.’
‘Don’t worry.’ She stared at the pavement. ‘He needs time. Obviously I failed today. I should have helped him come to terms with losing his mother.’
‘You can’t blame yourself.’
‘No? But that’s my job, as coroner.’
‘All you can do is decide how the deceased came to die.’
She shook her head. ‘You don’t understand. My business is not with the dead, but the living.’
‘You take too much responsibility on yourself. You’re a perfectionist.’
‘It’s a curse.’
‘I wouldn’t know. But I do know this – life is good, but it’s never perfect.’
She mustered a rueful smile. ‘I’ve always struggled to come to terms with that. Good isn’t good enough. Anyway, you came by cab. Can I give you a lift home?’
‘I don’t want to take you out of your way.’
‘It’s only a ten minute detour. I’m parked over there.’
Driving back to the city, they talked about the film. How much of the conspiracy was in Trelkovsky’s mind, how much was real? Everything Ceri said was logical, persuasive, intelligent, and yet he sensed her thoughts were elsewhere. With the memory of her dead husband, he guessed. The man who had destroyed his own life, just like Trelkovsky.
Even sitting next to each other in the cramped cinema seats, they’d kept a distance. It was enough to inhale her sweet perfume; to touch her would have been a betrayal of trust. He supposed she must like him, but she wasn’t in the market for romance. Still grieving. And he wasn’t sure he was ready for a new relationship. Ceri was as safe with him as Gina had been.
‘Here you are,’ she said, pulling up in the car park at Empire Dock.
‘Thanks.’ He thought for a moment about pecking her cheek. Decided against it.
‘Take care of yourself,’ she said. ‘And if you hear any more about Midsummer’s Eve, tell the police. Please.’
‘Will do.’ He grinned. ‘If I make it past Midsummer’s Eve, maybe we could do this again sometime?’
‘Maybe.’ Her smile was as enigmatic as the film they had seen. ‘Goodnight.’