I Remember You (10 page)

‘Problem solved,' he said to Rosemary as they walked back to the house. ‘The pickets haven't vanished, they're buried in that tangle of nettles. But you can make out the original course of the fence and it certainly runs around the outside of the trees. Do you remember when it began to collapse? I see from the land certificate you've been here a number of years.'

‘Eight, I think,' said Rosemary. She smiled at him. ‘I was a child bride, you understand. So can we get the Ambroses' knickers out of their twist?'

‘Leave it to me.'

‘Marvellous. The least I can do in the circumstances is offer you tea. I'm sure you're very busy, but can you spare the time?'

He paused as they reached the back door. ‘I can't think of a better way to spend an afternoon.'

Her hand brushed against his. ‘You know, you're not my idea of a solicitor. Thank God. I'm lucky to have you.' And she kissed him quickly on the cheek before disappearing in the direction of the kitchen.

As he listened to the kettle come to the boil, he felt lust warring with common sense. It occurred to him that this encounter had echoes of scenes in movies he loved: the glamorous lady of the house charming an eager admirer in the absence of her husband. He thought of Barbara Stanwyck tempting Fred McMurray in
Double Indemnity
. Was it possible, he asked himself, that when she came back into the room Rosemary would be in seductive mood? Did she see in him a means of escape from a tiresome husband, elderly but rich?

Might she even have murder on her mind?

He became aware that his mouth was dry, his body tense with expectation. Of course, it was ridiculous to let his imaginings take hold - but he could not help himself. She was not a woman he could easily resist.

‘Thinking about the law?' she asked, making another soft-soled return to the living room.

‘About breaking it,' he said.

She laid the tray of tea things down on a small mahogany table and, tilting her head to one side, considered him with care, as if in an attempt to make up her mind. Harry waited for her response.

‘I don't see you as a law-breaker,' she said.

And the note of regret in her voice told him more plainly than any words that he was not going to be seduced today.

Chapter Twelve

Half an hour later Harry was on his way back to the office. Waiting at traffic lights in Waterloo, he cast his mind back to the small talk he and Rosemary had exchanged while sipping their tea. No conversation between solicitor and client could have been more innocuous. She had neither made love to him nor sought to incite him to murder.

And all too soon she would be sunning herself in her husband's company at Puerto Banus. Accelerating as the lights turned to green, he instructed himself to blot Rosemary's face from his mind and treat her as no more than a name on a buff legal file.

On arriving at Fenwick Court his first thought was to ring Heather Crusoe for the latest about Jim.

‘Much better,' she assured him. ‘It's amazing what a good night's sleep can do. He's off the drip and they're already talking about the chances of him going home soon. Oh, and he wanted me to remind you specially that he expects you to do your duty at the exhibition. No sudden call-outs to some grotty police cell to get yourself off the hook and he said you weren't to slope off home until you have a diary-full of new clients.'

‘I think I liked him better when he could hardly speak. Okay, just this once.'

An hour later, as bidden, he made his way to Empire Hall, his gloom at the prospect of having to glad-hand the city's businessmen more than offset by his relief at the news of Jim's recovery.

The exhibition was being held in The Atrium, a glass-roofed annexe to the recently renovated main building which boasted more foliage than Kew and waterfalls as noisy as the Niagara. Near the entrance a huge magenta poster urged the city's businessmen to borrow money from The Bank That Cares. Harry knew it also as the bank that spent much of its time suing debtors, repossessing houses and sending in receivers. He smiled nervously at the under-manager responsible for Crusoe and Devlin's office account and scuttled away before he could be buttonholed for a chat about extending the partners' personal guarantees. His progress slowed as someone tugged at his arm.

‘Excuse me, sir, but do you know who wrote
The Decameron
? Are you familiar with the secret of nuclear fission? Don't you long for a better understanding of the world in which we live?'

The encyclopaedia salesman who had accosted him was as clean-cut as a Mormon missionary and no less enthusiastic. Harry was tempted to say the answers to the mysteries haunting him could not be found in any of the twenty-four luxuriously bound volumes the man was trying to flog. As he moved away, his eyes fell on the crowded corner bar, where Stanley Rowe was waving at him vigorously. The estate agent's skeletal features were flushed and at close quarters his breath left Harry in no doubt that he had been sampling the Special Exhibition Tankard.

‘Done any business this afternoon, Stan?'

‘The only joy I've had was when an old dear approached me at half four. I supposed she was a widow who wanted to sell the family home, move into sheltered housing perhaps.' Rowe shook his head mournfully. ‘Turned out she'd wandered in by mistake, expecting to find an all-in-wrestling bout. When I told her that was next week, she swore herself hoarse and stamped off to complain to someone in authority.'

‘Never mind, at least you should be cashing in on the Graham-Brown sale soon. The boundary - '

‘And that's another thing. Have you spoken to Geoffrey Willatt yet? There's a hitch.'

‘About the trees? But it's - '

‘Nothing to do with trees, Harry. You need to see the wood, don't worry about the bloody trees. The whole deal may fall through.'

‘That's impossible! Contracts have been exchanged.'

Stanley Rowe snorted. ‘Speak to him yourself. He's on the legal stand.'

On the other side of the aisle, an exhibition floor plan was pinned to a pillar alongside a local government stand mothballed as a result of industrial action on the part of the community's servants. Looking for the Liverpool Legal Group's stand, Harry spotted a name he had not expected to see.

Merseycredit. Stuart Graham-Brown's business.

Unable to contain his curiosity, he hurried over to the Merseycredit stand. There was no sign of Rosemary's husband, but standing behind the table was a rosy-cheeked brunette in a tracksuit a size too small for her. She greeted him with so much fervour he guessed she was paid by commission only.

‘Care for some literature, sir?'

He thumbed through the glossy clutcher she pressed into his hand. It was full of pictures of happy, beaming people, supposed beneficiaries of Merseycredit's financial advice. Arriving at the small print on the inside back page, he read that the firm was a partnership. And the only partners named were Stuart Graham-Brown and Rosemary Graham-Brown.

Well, well, well. So Rosemary had a direct share in the profits...

‘Let me arrange an interview for you, sir,' urged the brunette. ‘Free of charge, no obligation. Discretion assured.' She made it sound like a dating agency.

‘This would be with Mr Graham-Brown, presumably?'

‘Our senior partner? You'll understand, sir, he does have very many commitments and it's normally our assistant executives who see new clients. But if you particularly wanted to see Mr Graham-Brown, I'm sure we could fix something up next month. Unfortunately, I don't have his diary here. Perhaps I could take your telephone number?'

‘No need,' said Harry. ‘I'll give him a ring myself.'

‘Wait a minute!' She was desperate not to let a prospect slip away. ‘I can see him over there, talking to one of our clients. Do hang on for a moment, I'm sure he won't be long.'

She pointed to a man with greying hair further down the aisle. Stuart Graham-Brown was tall, with a suave manner and immaculate dress sense. He was, Harry judged, a good twenty years older than his wife. And he was deep in discussion with someone instantly recognisable - Nick Folley, of all people.

Harry made a quick decision. If Merseycredit's staff were unaware of the Graham-Browns' imminent flight to the sun, this wasn't the right time or place to introduce himself to the man responsible for their fate.

‘Sorry, but I can't wait. But you can tell him my name's Harry Devlin and I'll be in touch.' He walked briskly over to the adjoining aisle, where the Liverpool Legal Group was trying to convince an indifferent public of its urgent need for skilled professional advice. Most of the men passed quickly on to the next pitch, where a blonde wearing a low-cut top and tight leopardskin pants was encouraging the belief that an impulse buy of a Turkish time-share would prove their virility.

‘Harry, my dear fellow. Good of you to come.' Geoffrey Willatt greeted him from behind a counter which bore a placard saying contact maher and malcolm for professional services in complete confidence.

‘Hello, Geoffrey. Sure you're not using your legal business as a front for a brothel with a slogan like that?'

Willatt chortled his appreciation. ‘One of the things I always liked about you, Harry - splendid sense of humour.'

‘What's up?' Harry asked, suspicious of the excessive bonhomie. ‘Don't say you need me to do an extra stint?'

‘No, no, no. Glad to see you at all, good heavens. Appreciate your coming along at short notice. Partner sick, busy man, damn good show. Here, take some leaflets. To be frank, we're a little quiet at present; people don't seem yet to appreciate how much we can help. So you won't find your task too arduous.'

‘Fine. Now, about Crow's Nest House. The tree trouble has been resolved, you'll be glad to hear, so when can we complete?'

‘Ah,' said Willatt. He invested the syllable with a wealth of meaning, as if to convey brave hope dashed by life's vicissitudes.

‘Come on, then. Spit it out.'

Willatt's pained expression made it clear that he had never spat anything out in all his days. When he spoke his words were emollient.

‘We have a slight problem with the Ambroses, I fear. Namely, the Byzantium Line have announced their half-yearly results today. Rather poor, as you'll have seen if you keep in touch with the stock market. No? Well, anyway, they have found it necessary to impose cutbacks. The Liverpool office is to be slimmed down and there's going to be no room in it for Mr Ambrose, poor chap. Apparently they need to rationalise, concentrate on major international business and as a result, they want him out in Nigeria instead.'

‘So a house in darkest Formby won't be too much use to him, then?'

‘I'm afraid that's about the size of it. But if any of your clients are looking to rent out an air-conditioned penthouse flat in Lagos, we'd be happy to look at it.' Willatt's blustery guffaw did not disguise his apprehension as he awaited a reaction.

‘Not good enough, Geoffrey - you know that. Contracts have already been exchanged.' Harry said this as though the deal had been cast in tablets of stone, but as he spoke he tried to reach back into the past and his days as a baffled student of the law of real property. Couldn't the Graham-Browns issue to the Ambroses something called a notice to complete? But what would be its legal effect?

Willatt allowed himself a superior smile. Harry realised that his former principal was, for all his professional embarrassment, relishing the sight of a defector from Maher and Malcolm groping in vain for a basic bit of legal know-how.

‘I think you'll find that my people are willing to make an offer to forestall the need for any unpleasantness.'

Willatt never soiled his hands with court work; he let colleagues do the dirty work associated with lucrative disputes. In lectures and after-dinner speeches he invariably described litigation as a necessary evil, rather like a Middle East arms dealer deploring the outbreak of war.

‘You're well aware of the urgency. My clients need the sale so they can move abroad themselves in the very near future.'

‘Tax exile, is it? I didn't know your firm made a habit of acting for the well-heeled, Harry. Or are these people simply aiming to get beyond the reach of the extradition laws?'

As Willatt chuckled, Harry wondered if it was a case of truth being spoken in jest. He decided to tough it out. ‘I'm afraid you'll find,' he said, ‘that my people regard this as a matter of principle.' Lawyers' code for
they'll drive a ruthless bargain
.

‘I can assure you,' said Willatt, responding in the same language, ‘the Ambroses are prepared to be reasonable.'

In other words, he'd advised them they didn't have a leg to stand on. Money was therefore unlikely to be a barrier to a deal, but Harry was sure that would not satisfy the Graham-Browns.

He shrugged. ‘I'll take instructions.' Meaning
God knows what they'll say
. Geoffrey Willatt beamed and bade him farewell.

Harry's half hour of marketing would have turned into less a test of his P.R. skills than of his ability in staying awake, had Geoffrey Willatt's news not intervened. A few feet away, the leopardskin girl was attracting much attention, but the pamphlets Geoffrey had left him, entitled
Let a Lawyer Look at your Lease
and
Speak to a Solicitor when you want to sell a Shop
, failed to divert a single passer-by. Even so, he had plenty to think about.

He turned his mind to the Ambroses' impending default. What would Rosemary make of it? She seemed so keen to emigrate. But why was that? Was she the anxious one, or merely acting on her husband's strict instructions? Until now Harry had typecast Stuart Graham-Brown as an older man with money to burn, ready to indulge his wife's fantasies. Was that a mistake? Was Graham-Brown the one desperate to flee to his hideaway on the Spanish coast? ‘Financial services' covered sins ranging from dodgy investment advice to wheeler-dealing on the futures market. Plenty of people in that line of business must have something to hide - was he one of them? He tried to think of an honest reason why Graham-Brown should allow his staff to talk about booking him for appointments he would never keep. For once, imagination failed him.

No wonder it was so important to complete the house sale quickly. No wonder the Graham-Browns were willing to drop the asking price. The financial prize of their scam - whatever it might be, a confidence trick played on investors, perhaps - must be huge to warrant leaving the business behind.

How much did Rosemary know? The idea she might be ignorant of her husband's duplicity appealed to Harry. But he recalled her air of excitement at their first meeting in New Commodities House and how nervous she had been earlier at her home. With hindsight, her behaviour seemed far from innocent. And it was not as if Graham-Brown was intending to skip to Spain with his secretary, instead of his wife. Why should he, when Rosemary put the average bimbo to shame? She might have reservations about him and his choice of their daughter's name, but she was a woman who luxuriated in the leisured life that money could bring. Harry had little doubt they were in it together.

‘You look as though someone's let you down,' said an ironic female voice. ‘What's up? Has Rogan done a runner without paying your bill?'

Kim Lawrence had arrived to take her turn on duty. Harry thought it unlikely that the posters she was carrying about the need to fight to safeguard legal aid would tempt many middle-aged captains of industry away from the leopardskin lady.

‘It's all yours,' he said. ‘And as for Finbar, he's around here somewhere if you're in the mood for a little Irish levity.'

She winced. ‘With any luck, I'll avoid him. I simply don't believe that man is as naive as he makes out. I've met his kind before: totally self-centred. All hail-fellow-well-met until you cross them. Then, when you do, God help you.'

Harry guessed that Finbar would meet his match in Kim Lawrence. For the first time it occurred to him that his client did not attract such a wide range of women as he had always enviously supposed. To fall for the blarney, they had to be vulnerable - as Harry sensed Melissa to be - or simply keen on sex, like Sophie.