I Remember You (11 page)

‘You'll be telling me next that what happened in chambers the other day was a miscarriage of justice to rival the Guildford Four.'

‘A travesty,' said Kim Lawrence, although the sardonic glint in her eyes robbed her words of priggishness. Her face darkened. ‘And though I'll live to fight another day, my client was deeply distressed.'

‘You win some, you lose some.'

‘I don't think Sinead Rogan is so philosophical. I've never seen anyone as furious as she was after Cody's ruling.'

Harry was about to ask Kim if Sinead had said anything to her about Eileen McCray when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

‘Harry! It's a small world.'

Baz Gilbert and Penny Newland, hand in hand, had come up behind him. The disc jockey gestured at the crowd surrounding the timeshare stand and gave a crooked smile. ‘Legal business doesn't seem so brisk. Competition too hot?'

‘There wasn't much hope for us once Ms Lawrence here banned us from touting for new clients under the slogan “Drop Your Old Briefs”.' He dodged out of reach of feminist retribution and asked, ‘And you two? Has Nick Folley insisted that you go on parade?'

‘With such a small staff, everyone has to do their share,' said Penny. ‘Even Sophie's graced us with her presence. Perhaps she hasn't found anyone to share a hotel room with this evening.'

Her bitchiness came as a surprise to Harry. He sensed she took personal offence at her colleague's philandering. Obviously news of Sophie's misadventures at the Blue Moon had not taken long to reach the Radio Liverpool grapevine.

‘Thanks again for inviting me on to
Pop In
,' he said, hastily changing the subject. ‘Until yesterday morning, all I knew about local radio was what I'd gleaned from
Play Misty For Me
.'

‘I'm no Clint Eastwood,' said Baz.

‘You're not so bad,' his girlfriend said, squeezing his arm as the three of them walked down the aisle.

‘At least I don't have as much trouble as Clint did, fending off the psychopaths.'

‘I don't know, you've had your share of nutcases to contend with. Especially on the phone-ins.'

‘A hazard of the job?' asked Harry.

‘Too right,' said Penny. Her expression was troubled. ‘There are some very unhappy people out there. And some very disturbed ones.'

‘Someone's got to support Tranmere Rovers,' said Baz.

‘That reminds me! What about the man who would only make love wearing Liverpool football kit?'

‘He once scored at Anfield,' said Baz drily.

‘But he's had some sad cases, Harry. In the end, it began to get to him, that's why he asked Nick to let him move to the morning show. He takes his work so seriously, always gives it one hundred per cent. But it's no fun at two a.m., trying to talk sense to someone at the end of their tether.'

Harry was struck again by Penny's fierce devotion to her lover. He wondered whether the disc jockey found it hard living on a pedestal.

‘No wonder they talk about the desperate hours,' said Baz. ‘The straw that broke my back was a couple of months or so ago. A young girl called, threatening to commit suicide. I tried to persuade her things weren't so bad, but it was like soft-soaping a speak-your-weight machine. She just kept repeating her life was in ruins, she was no good, she'd let her family down.'

‘What was the problem?'

‘The usual. A young Catholic girl who got pregnant. She wanted an abortion, but felt she could never live with herself afterwards. I'm not one for religion, never have been, and I kept arguing with her, off the air and on. A bundle of clichés, but true all the same. She was only a kid, she had everything good ahead of her, why ruin her life for one silly mistake?'

‘So what happened?'

Baz's face was ashen as he cast his mind back; Penny had her head bowed. ‘She took my advice, but there was a problem with the anaesthetic. She had a bad reaction to it - a chance in ten thousand. She died without regaining consciousness. I threw up when I heard the news. Couldn't help reproaching myself.'

‘It wasn't your fault,' said Penny urgently. ‘You'd done everything in your power to help young Eileen. She simply couldn't - '

‘Eileen?' interrupted Harry. In the overheated room he felt suddenly cold. ‘What was her second name?'

Baz and Penny exchanged puzzled glances.

‘McCray,' said the disc jockey. ‘She was called Eileen McCray. Why do you ask?'

Chapter Thirteen

‘Life's riddled with uncertainties, sir!'

A fresh faced youth in a blue polyester blazer called to Harry from an insurance company's stand.

‘You take chances every single day! But don't despair! Help is at hand.' The salesman spoke with the evangelistic fervour of an aspiring Billy Graham. Having captured his prospect's attention, he allowed his mouth to relax into a smile as broad as the get-out clauses in the small print of the policies he sold.

‘We offer our clients real peace of mind - about their lives, their property, their possessions...'

‘Sorry,' said Harry, brushing away the proffered literature. ‘Never mind hang-gliding and unsafe sex. If you knew the people I mix with, you'd declare me uninsurable.'

He'd said goodbye to Baz and Penny at the Radio Liverpool stand. Finbar wasn't there and neither was Melissa. The engineer from
Pop In
said the Irishman had gone to the bar whilst his girlfriend went to the loo. That suited Harry, who wanted the chance of a private word with his client. He was after confirmation that Finbar was the father of the unborn child Eileen McCray had decided to abort.

As for insurance, Finbar had to be the ultimate bad risk, with two attempts on his life in swift succession. Would McCray - assuming he was the culprit - try again, or would the police investigation scare him off? Harry doubted whether the builder frightened easily. Finbar's best hope of saving his skin was to put aside his guilt about Eileen McCray's death and tell Sladdin about it. But if he did not, what could be done to help him?

Two people. Rosemary and Finbar. Both fools to themselves, yet both clients for whom Harry couldn't help caring. He felt an unwanted sense of responsibility for their fates, as if they were silly kids blind to the danger of what they were doing and therefore unable to protect themselves.

He became aware that his head was aching, perhaps in protest against having too much to think about. Preoccupied, not looking where he was going, he almost collided with a woman heading in the opposite direction.

‘Sorry,' he said. ‘Oh - it's you.'

Since her tearful departure from the Blue Moon, Sophie had conquered the shock of the bomb blast and her skilfully made-up face had regained its customary composure. He detected no trace of pleasure to see him. In her mind he had obviously become a lost cause: a friend of Finbar Rogan.

‘The police insisted on talking to me,' she said, as if it were Harry's fault.

‘Inevitable, Sophie. Nothing more than a routine check.'

She wagged a long finger at him. Whilst she would not admit it, he guessed she was glad of the opportunity to vent her anger about her disastrous afternoon affair.

‘I never dreamed when I agreed to go with Finbar bloody Rogan how things would finish up.'

‘Surely with Finbar you didn't expect to live happily ever after?'

‘I expect you think I deserved what I got, missing death by a whisker and having to suffer the third degree, do you? But remember, he's your client and you've always known he's bad news. I just thought he was a good-looking feller with a gift of the gab - not that he was some kind of terrorist.'

‘Come on now, Sophie. Finbar has many faults, but he's not mixed up with terrorism. You must realise that.'

She uttered a sharp bark of laughter. ‘Oh yes? Do you have many clients who have their businesses burned down and their cars bombed? Wake up, Harry. The man's made serious enemies, and you can add me to the list. It's taken me years to get where I am now with Radio Liverpool. And if Nick sacks me because he finds out I was screwing a tattooist when I should have been at work, Finbar will be safer with the I.R. bloody A. than with me. I'll murder him myself.'

‘Folley is bound to find out sooner or later. People are already talking about you and Finbar.'

‘Shit! I only told Penny, and that was in confidence when I got back to the station. I was only looking for a shoulder to cry on - just goes to show you can't trust anyone these days.'

‘If you'll take my advice, you'll tell Folley fast, before someone else does. Limit the damage.'

She stared at him. ‘Take
your
advice? You must be joking. Save your words of wisdom for Finbar. He'll certainly need something if he's planning to stay alive.' And with a vigorous shake of her red mane, she stalked off. Looking back, Harry saw her pause when she reached the radio station's stand and slip her arm in that of someone whose back was turned to him.

‘Was that the lovely Sophie I saw you chatting up?'

Harry spun round. ‘Finbar! I want a word with you. Did you realise Sophie's gunning for you now, like everyone else? I was trying to persuade her to confess to Folley about her fling with you, before Penny Newland lets the cat well and truly out of the bag.'

‘Penny?' Finbar frowned. ‘What does she know?'

‘Sophie told her she was with you at the Blue Moon.'

Finbar swore. ‘She's a darling girl, is Penny, but she ought to know the value of discretion. Don't fret, I'll have a word with her. Make sure she buttons her mouth.'

‘You'll be lucky. She only has eyes for Baz and I don't think she's susceptible to anyone else's silver tongue. In any case, you can't hope to contain gossip so easily. Let me see if I have more luck getting you to listen to me than Sophie. Are you listening? Tell Melissa about the Blue Moon right now. Explain it was a one-off. Promise it won't happen again - especially if you mean it.'

‘Ah, Harry,' said Finbar with a sigh, ‘you really think everyone is as straight as you. But women aren't like that. They like their truth in soft focus. It's the romantic glow they go for, not the hard details.'

‘You underestimate Melissa. I'm sure she's a realist.'

‘Oh, sweet Jases, you really believe that, don't you? Harry, you could hardly be more wrong. Mel's a lovely girl, I care for her deeply, but compared to her Walter Mitty had his feet on the ground. She's had treatment, don't you know, for the troubles she's been through?'

‘Treatment?'

‘Wipe off your worried frown, it's bad for business, specially in the midst of all these well-heeled folk, they're potential clients. Yeah, the poor girl - suffers with her nerves, let's say. She had a spell in hospital and she's been on drugs and stuff. Now do you understand why she takes a fancy to me? You always reckoned a woman must need her head examined to swallow my chat - well, for once you were right.' He gave a bleak smile. ‘Folley ditched her soon enough. I didn't steal her from him, he was more than ready and willing to step aside. You could say I'm a sort of social service. Y'know, I think there's something about the neurotic types that appeals to me. Maybe it's because they're so anxious to be good in the sack.'

Harry grimaced. Finbar's candour was repellent, though he was sublimely unaware of the fact. He genuinely believed himself to be misunderstood, a kind of sensual do-gooder who didn't get the appreciation he deserved.

‘So you see, mate, there's naught to be gained by telling the lady what she doesn't want to hear. Too much honesty is bad for the soul. Come on, why don't you come over and say hello?'

He walked off towards the Radio Liverpool stand. Harry hesitated for a moment, then chased after him.

‘Listen, you bugger, I need to talk to you about the bomb. I've heard about Eileen...'

Finbar kept going but a shadow passed across his face. ‘For Heaven's sake, this isn't the time or the place,' he said under his breath. ‘I told you I don't want to talk about Eileen. Leave it alone, can't you?'

They could both see Melissa now. She had turned up at the stand and was on the edge of the group of people standing around it, talking idly to Tracey Liggett and the engineer.

Raising his voice as he approached, Finbar called out, ‘Melissa, look who we've got here! Our very own legal eagle! A professional bird of prey, come to pay us a visit!'

Melissa moved towards them. ‘You bastard, Finbar,' she said in a soft but distinct murmur. ‘You fucking bastard.'

Two businessmen close by heard what she said. One of them, to judge by his breath and bloodshot eyes, had spent all evening at the bar, and he whistled derisively at Finbar. ‘Upset the little lady have you, pal?' he whooped. ‘Oh, dearie me!'

Heads began to turn. Harry looked round in despair for the exit.

Finbar ignored the drunk. ‘Don't listen to tittle-tattle, darling,' he said to Melissa. ‘Let's have a talk about things, just you and - '

‘Talk!' she hissed. ‘You do nothing but! Except when you're carrying on with that bloody red-haired prostitute...'

‘Who are you calling a prostitute?'

Sophie's voice came loud and clear. The drunk seemed to appreciate her intervention; he uttered a long, ‘Oooooooh!' before stumbling over his own feet and having to clutch at his embarrassed companion for support.

Suddenly, Harry became aware of someone elbowing past him.

‘Stop it! Both of you! Or you're both finished!'

Nick Folley's face was crimson with fury. Harry could tell he was about to let his temper rip.

‘Oh shit!' said Sophie.

Melissa spat at her, but Folley prevented retaliation by grabbing hold of Sophie's arm and thrusting her to one side.

‘That's enough, Melissa. You're fired. Instant dismissal for gross misconduct, do you hear me? Now sod off home. Your P45 and the money we owe you will come through the post.'

The words hit her with more force than a slap in the face. She blanched and clutched at Folley's sleeve.

‘Nick! You can't mean that! You know how much I need...'

Folley pushed her arm away. ‘You should have thought about that before making a scene.'

‘Now wait a minute,' said Finbar. He sounded moderate: the voice of reason, keeping a cool head when all around were losing theirs. But as the words passed his lips, Harry glanced at Folley and realised his client's timing could not have been worse.

Folley spoke quietly, so quietly that the drunken businessman had to lean forward to hear. But there was no mistaking his venom. ‘This is all down to you, Rogan. All down to your having your balls where your fucking brains should be. Do you understand what I want to do to you? This!'

He lunged forward, put his hands round Finbar's throat and began to squeeze.

Harry and the drunk's companion caught Folley's arms and tried to drag him off the Irishman. It wasn't easy. Rage gave Folley the brute power of a back-street brawler and he gripped Finbar's neck as if his own life depended on it.

The sudden onslaught had knocked Finbar backwards, but within seconds he was clawing at Folley, trying desperately to breathe. As the drunk cheered the combatants with incoherent delight, the strength of numbers began to tell and Harry forced Folley to release his hold. Losing his balance, Folley toppled on to the floor, where he lay panting as if on the brink of a coronary.

Finbar stood up gingerly and rubbed his neck. The flesh bore livid red marks where Folley had tried to throttle him, but he seemed more shocked by the ferocity of the attack than by the pain.

‘I was only trying to conciliate,' he croaked.

Dusting himself down, Harry realised his exasperation was tinged with grim amusement. Despite all recent evidence, Finbar seemed unable to accept that anyone could wish to do him harm. There was something oddly irresistible about someone so thick-skinned. For Harry, Finbar was becoming a bad habit.

‘Come on,' he said, nodding thanks to the drunk's companion. ‘Let's go before you destroy what's left of Liverpool's business community.'

He led his hobbling client away. Halfway down the aisle, he glanced over his shoulder to see Nick Folley following their progress, crouched on his haunches, breathing heavily and looking as if he had murder on his mind. Behind Folley stood Sophie Wilkins. She put a tentative hand on her lover's shoulder, but he shrugged it off. Melissa was nowhere to be seen; during the rumpus she had disappeared.

Near the exit a pretty girl stopped them. ‘Excuse me, do you realise the importance of corporate hospitality? Taking the people who give you business to Wimbledon or Lord's?'

Before Finbar could recover sufficiently to embark on a chat-up line, Harry intervened. ‘Wouldn't suit my firm, love. Except if you're offering an Away Day to Wormword Scrubs so my clients can visit their loved ones.'

Once out in the cold night air, Finbar rubbed his nose pensively. ‘Listen - any chance you could do me a favour? Your place is only round the corner. Could I spend the night on your couch? Melissa may have gone back to the flat and I don't think she's in the mood yet to kiss and make up.'

Harry's heart sank but he reminded himself that Finbar had seen his business burnt down and his car blown up within the space of a couple of days. He couldn't say no.

‘Just for one night?'

‘That's all I need. Thanks, Harry, you're very good to me. Not just a lawyer, but a pal. I know I shouldn't have asked.'

Part of Harry wished Finbar hadn't. But he made up his mind to exact a price for his hospitality. He was determined to satisfy his own urgent need to know. Never would he have a better chance than tonight to discover his client's guilty secrets.