I Remember You (12 page)

Chapter Fourteen

‘Look,' said Finbar, draining his glass of Johnnie Walker, ‘I don't come out of this very well.'

‘That's the story of your life,' said Harry unsympathetically. ‘You're twenty years too late for worrying about your image. So tell me about Eileen. The truth, mind - the whole truth and nothing but.'

They were in Harry's flat, far from the madding crowd of the Liverpool Business Day exhibition. Through the thick lined curtains they could hear the wind wailing down the Mersey: a wild, elemental sound. Harry could easily have believed there wasn't another living soul within a hundred miles.

Finbar cleared his throat. ‘In the old days, back in Ireland, I knew a feller called Dermot McCray. A big bugger, muscles in his spit. He worked in the building trade, which is no place for Little Lord Fauntleroys. As young fellers we were pals, we'd drink together from time to time. To this day he has a line of dot tattoos I drew on the knuckles of each hand. I was only a lad then - hadn't mastered the finer points of my craft.

‘At first, Dermot was one for the ladies himself, but he soon hooked up with a girl called Oonagh, a lovely creature with the most marvellous chestnut hair. They got married, she had a child and I didn't see much of him after that. The last time we met in Dublin he told me he fancied coming over to England and setting up on his own. A few months later, I heard he'd crossed to Liverpool and done just that.'

Finbar paused and scratched his chin. He had the raconteur's gift of spinning out any story, keeping his listener anxious for the next instalment.

‘The McCrays came back to Dublin from time to time. They kept in close touch with family and friends, but I hardly ever saw them until Sinead and I moved over here. I used to bump into him every now and then in the De Valera.'

‘The Irish club off Solvay Street?'

‘Right. Noted for good beer and bad company. By that time, Dermot had started making money and formed his own company. As you've gathered, Eileen was his daughter. He brought Oonagh and her to the De Valera one night and introduced me. Oonagh had put on weight; the
dolce vita
had got to her and no mistake. But Eileen was a different proposition altogether. Sweet sixteen and with the same chestnut hair her mother had in her prime. From the moment I saw her I was smitten.'

‘A bit young, even by your standards.'

‘Harry, don't I know it? But there, you never know where Cupid's dart may land. And Eileen was so perfect. Looked like a virgin and loved like her life depended on it.' He coughed and became contrite. ‘Sorry. A poor choice of phrase, as things turned out.'

‘You started seeing her?'

‘She'd lately left school and taken a job in a travel agency. I used to tell her she deserved better. Anyway, she managed to sneak off from work two or three times a week. The boss had the hots for her too - he let her get away with murder.'

‘Did Dermot and Oonagh cotton on to what you were up to?'

‘Give me some credit. I've had years of experience in covering my tracks. Besides, I didn't want to get on the wrong side of Dermot. He was a pal from way back and, anyway, it doesn't pay to antagonise a tough man in the building trade. I didn't fancy finishing up in a concrete overcoat as part of the foundations of a new supermarket or motorway flyover.'

‘So what happened?'

‘Eileen got herself pregnant, that's what happened. Ah yes, you'll say it takes two to tango, but she'd promised me she was on the Pill. She didn't set out to trap me, that's for sure. Maybe she simply forgot to take it one night. Ah, all this time and I'd never been caught before!'

‘I take it you didn't offer to do what people used to call the decent thing?'

‘Harry, there was no future in marriage between Eileen and me. I've been through that malarkey once and I'm not for making the same mistake twice. She was a slip of a kid, less than half my age. We were good for each other, but neither of us wanted a lifetime commitment. That left only one solution.'

Finbar pulled a face at the memory. Harry said nothing.

‘I didn't force the issue. She decided for herself that it was best to have an abortion. Dermot and Oonagh had brought her up to be a good Catholic girl, but Eileen didn't want to be tied down too young.'

Baz had told the story differently, Harry recalled.

‘Did either of you discuss it with her parents?'

‘No way. We agreed they mustn't be told. Dermot's as devout as any man I know and the very idea of abortion would be enough to send him for his shotgun. To tell him I'd put his daughter up the spout would be like autographing a suicide note.'

‘If he's as devout as all that, there shouldn't have been any danger of physical violence.'

‘Harry, where have you been the last twenty-five years? Haven't you seen what people from my part of the world can do in the name of religion? If they can blow bits off the bodies of folk they don't even know, who never did them a single injury, what chance is there for me if someone like Dermot decides I need to be taught a lesson?'

‘So what happened?'

‘She booked into a private clinic. It was my idea, I let her have a little nest egg of mine.' Finbar closed his eyes. ‘Anyway, there were problems with the anaesthetic. God knows what went wrong, but she never came round again.'

‘She died in the clinic?'

‘With all the pricey medical expertise at hand,' said Finbar bitterly. ‘Eileen, who'd never had a day's illness in her life, who had so much left to look forward to, killed undergoing an operation that was all my fault.'

‘Shit,' said Harry. ‘What did you tell the McCrays?'

Finbar shifted from foot to foot. ‘Fact is, Harry, I didn't tell them anything. There was no point. I couldn't bring her back. They had plenty to grieve about without knowing their daughter had been seduced by a man old enough to be her dad.'

‘And you didn't relish the prospect of Dermot taking revenge?'

Finbar's expression was grim. ‘There's no telling what a bereaved father might do. Specially a hard man like Dermot McCray.'

‘So how did he find out you were Eileen's boyfriend?' Harry had already described his brief encounter with McCray at Fenwick Court. ‘From the clinic?'

‘They never knew who I was. I gave her the money, but she made all the arrangements. And not from Baz, either. Eileen told me she'd been talking to him on the bloody air, said she rang him when she was feeling low. Jases, with all those people listening! That sent me into a panic. But she swore she'd never mentioned my name to anyone.'

‘Yet Dermot and Sinead obviously know. They must have found out from someone.'

‘There's only one explanation. A week or two ago, I was drinking in the De Valera. I've not seen Dermot there since Eileen died. Anyway, I'd had one over the eight. Melissa was away visiting some sick relation, so I was on my own. Maybe I got a bit maudlin and the booze began to talk ... late in the night I was chatting to this old pal of mine, Liam Keogh. You've met him yourself, I introduced you once in the Dock Brief, remember? I started telling him about Eileen, and before I knew what I was saying, I'd spilled the whole bag of beans.'

‘Do you think he would have told Sinead? Or McCray?'

‘More than likely. Not out of devilment, but he couldn't keep his mouth shut to save his life. Still, who am I to talk? Liam's a decent feller, I should've kept my own counsel. After all, I've never said a word to anyone else. Except yourself.'

‘It's time for you to tell the police. Unless you want Dermot to succeed with his next attack.'

‘So you think he's the one who has it in for me?'

‘He has the opportunity as well as the motive. Who else do you know who is likely to be hand in glove with Irish terrorists, people with access to bomb-making equipment?'

‘Maybe you're right. I must admit I've been mulling over the notion. Yet there's one thing I can't understand. Dermot never had anything to do with terrorism while I knew him. And this is a private grudge, nothing more.'

Harry leaned forward. ‘Leave Sladdin to ferret out the evidence,' he urged. ‘Will you speak to him tomorrow?'

‘Maybe I will.' Finbar exhaled. ‘Now, is there any chance of another glass of your excellent whisky?'

Harry passed the bottle and slumped back into his chair. He felt exhausted. It had been a long day and his headache had worsened. The story of Eileen's death had dismayed him; although he realised the dangers of moral judgments, he felt he could never regard Finbar in the same way again. There would always be a barrier between them, built of his repugnance for the way his client used the women in his life. But at least it seemed the riddle of the attacks on Finbar had been solved. Harry began to yearn for nothing other than a darkened room and deep sleep.

Finbar kept him up late all the same, supping his booze and telling tall stories of tattoos he had drawn and the people who had worn them. As he dozed, Harry was vaguely aware of his guest illustrating an anecdote with pictures swiftly drawn on paper torn from a Counsel's notebook he found in the hall, admiring his own handiwork then crumpling the sheets up and tossing them aside. Eventually Harry dropped off and began to dream. Strange creatures, come to life from Finbar's tattoos, were menacing him: a furious phoenix and a blood-spitting dragon, hate filled tigers and a black butterfly which flapped vast intimidating wings.

When he awoke he became fuzzily aware that it was morning and he was lying on the couch in the living room. His neck was sore and at first he wondered if perhaps he, rather than his client, had been the victim of attempted strangulation. Finally he realised it was simply the result of lying in an uncomfortable position. He stretched complaining limbs and tried to ignore a roaring in his head reminiscent of the noise made by McCray's navvies.

Finbar, wearing only his trousers, wandered into the living room. From his bare chest, Lady Godiva squinted at Harry with disdain. Her creator seemed well rested and in jovial mood.

‘Don't you dare utter one cheerful word,' mumbled Harry, ‘or I'll finish the job Folley started.'

‘Not in the best of humours, are we? Shame, but the drink does have an effect. And as for Nick - well, we all get overexcited from time to time.'

‘So you're in a forgiving mood?'

‘I've never been a man to hold grudges. It's not as if it was a serious attempt to kill me, not slap-bang in the middle of a public exhibition.' Finbar scratched himself under the arms. ‘And after the events of the last day or two, Nick Folley is the least of my worries. Now, can I get you an aspirin?'

‘Never mind the aspirin - why didn't you put me to bed?'

‘Ah, you looked so peaceful it seemed wrong to disturb you! And since you'd taken my billet on the couch I thought the sensible thing was for me to borrow your bed for the night. No problem about the old sheets, I'm not that pernickety.' He retuned Harry's transistor to Radio Liverpool and switched on
Pop In
, where Baz was dedicating ‘This Guy's In Love With You' to Penny Newland. Finbar sang along with tuneless gusto.

Harry crawled off the couch and made himself a coffee. He responded to Finbar's attempts at conversation with monosyllables which became emphatic only when Finbar said wistfully that he couldn't expect to impose on Harry's hospitality for another night. ‘No,' Harry agreed.

‘Ah well,' said Finbar with a sigh, ‘I suppose I'd better try and make my peace with Melissa.'

‘You'll be lucky.'

‘That little - contretemps, shall we say? - last evening was unfortunate, I'll agree. She was upset, it's only natural. But she'll get over it. Women do.'

‘And if not?'

‘Plenty more fish in the sea, Harry.'

There was no arguing with him. Harry finished his coffee. ‘I'll be off now,' he said. ‘I have a date in the police cells this morning. Stay here a while if you want. Slam the door behind you when you go. And for God's sake talk to Sladdin.'

‘Thanks again, mate. I appreciate what you've done.'

‘Keep in touch,' said Harry, unsure whether he meant it.

Harry spent the morning at court representing a couple of scoundrels who regarded arrest as a way of life. When he returned to Fenwick Court, the construction work had stopped, but a couple of McCray's men were there, talking in low, angry voices. As Harry walked across the courtyard, the atmosphere seemed to him heavy with unspoken menace. He wondered whether he ought to ring the police himself if Finbar reneged on his promise to tell all to Sladdin.

Sylvia Reid greeted him in reception. He could tell from the curve of her smile that she'd heard good news.

‘Heather called. Jim is due to be discharged later today.'

‘Seriously? That's wonderful. Though with the National Health Service in its present state, all it means is he's not in immediate need of intensive care.'

Nevertheless, the message delighted him. As he worked through the urgent post in his own room, he reflected that, but for his partner's accident, he would never have laid a finger on the Graham-Brown file, and would thus have been spared the dilemmas that now faced him. How was he to tell Rosemary that the Ambroses were unable to complete? And what was he to do about his suspicion that her husband was engaged in some kind of fraud?

He decided against paying another visit to Crow's Nest House. It might be better, he told himself, to draw her out. He dictated a terse letter to her and her husband, passing on Geoffrey Willatt's message and asking them to contact him to discuss its implications. Having signed it and asked his secretary to send it first class, he tried to concentrate on the misadventures of the more commonplace crooks he acted for in the criminal courts. But it was no good. Even when the envelope had been entrusted to the Royal Mail, he kept harking back to Rosemary. No point in fooling himself; he hadn't wanted to take the chance of seeing her again. There was too great a risk that, in her presence, he would let his heart rule his head.