I Remember You (13 page)

Yet his instinct was, as ever, for action. Sitting on the sidelines could never satisfy him for long. By the end of the afternoon he had decided on a different kind of direct approach; it was time to introduce himself to Stuart Graham-Brown. He would tell his client face to face that the house sale had fallen through, see for himself the reaction his news evoked. Caught off guard, Graham-Brown might be tempted to give his game away.

A glance at the phone book confirmed that Merseycredit's office was to be found in Tobacco Court and he strolled there through the evening twilight by way of Dale Street, uncertain what his next move should be on arrival. His destination was one of the warren of passageways which had once been Liverpool's mercantile heartland; a place for trading cotton, crops and animal skins. These days most of the buildings were vacant and in a state of disrepair; the courtyard was home only to Merseycredit, a sex shop, a wine lodge and a greasy spoon cafe. Perhaps, Harry reflected, Tobacco Court should carry a government health warning.

The name of Merseycredit was picked out in gold leaf on a first floor window above the sex shop. An entrance door led to a flight of stairs. Harry hesitated at the bottom, but when he heard people talking upstairs, he dodged out again and studied the card in the sex shop window which warned him not to be shocked if he found ‘adult goods' on sale inside.

Stuart Graham-Brown, another man and a woman came out into the street and walked past Harry without a glance. They were engrossed in their discussion and made straight for the wine lodge. Harry saw their reflections clearly, despite the dirt and fingermark smudges on the shop window. Graham-Brown's female companion was a hard-faced blonde in her late thirties and she had her arm wrapped around him. It was clear they were more than just good friends. The other man was Dermot McCray.

Startled, Harry abandoned his idea of confronting his client; whilst Dermot McCray was about, it made sense to steer clear. But why was McCray here? And who was the woman with Graham-Brown?

Bewildered, he retreated to a nearby pub called the Plimsoll Line. It was a new place which occupied the basement of Exchange Precinct, a whimsical architect's pastiche of a pyramid, funded by grants from the Pharaohs of the European Community. Here, ground-floor shops offered holograms, Japanese wall coverings and cruelty-free cosmetics to a public which preferred to look rather than buy, while most of the offices up above were unlet. According to Stanley Rowe, the rents here were as high as the St John's Beacon. The mediaeval traders who had once swarmed around Leather Lane, Hackins Hey and Tobacco Court must be turning in their graves.

Over a pint as cloudy as a Merseyside morning, he asked himself why Graham-Brown would plan a flit to Spain with his wife whilst conducting an affair with another woman. Did he intend to ditch Rosemary? And could there be some extraordinary connection between Merseycredit and the attacks on Finbar? None of it made sense.

He finished his drink and went back to the wine lodge. Standing in an alcove just inside the door, he could see McCray arguing with Graham-Brown. As he watched, the quarrel reached its climax. Graham-Brown folded his arms, an elegant but decisive gesture; he had spoken his last word. McCray's face was purple with rage. He turned on his heel and marched out, passing within a couple of feet of Harry, who had pressed himself against the wall.

Graham-Brown smiled at the blonde and put his hand on her knee. She straightened his tie. Harry toyed with the idea of confronting his client. But what could he say?
I know you're on the fiddle? I've discovered you're deceiving Rosemary, though for the life of me I can't understand why you prefer a woman with a face as sharp as the edge of an axe?

Lost in thought, he walked home through the city, his progress slowed by a crowd outside the Town Hall protesting to councillors arriving for an emergency evening meeting, called in a hopeless effort to balance the books. These days demonstrators campaigned for the right to work: not so many years ago, they had been fighting for the right to strike.

Back in the flat there was, to his relief, no sign of Finbar. He spent the evening working his way through a six-pack and watching a tape of
Vertigo
. The way his head was spinning, the choice of movie seemed peculiarly apposite.

Shortly before eleven, the telephone shrilled. Harry suspected it might be the police, calling him in on behalf of a car thief or house burglar - or, even worse, bloody Finbar, wanting a roof over his head for one more night. He poured himself another drink and did not move. But the phone persisted and eventually his resistance crumbled.

‘Hello?'

‘Harry! Thank God you're there. I was about to give up hope.'

‘Is that you, Melissa? What's bothering you at his late hour?'

‘I need you here urgently. In my flat.'

‘Melissa! This is so sudden.'

‘Listen, I'm not joking. I wouldn't disturb you if it wasn't desperate, but you're the only lawyer I know.'

‘And why do you need a lawyer at this time of night?'

‘It's about Finbar.'

Who else?

‘What's he done now?'

‘I have the police here. They've told me he's been found dead. And they think I killed him.'

Chapter Fifteen

‘I'm not accusing you of anything,' said Sladdin.

Sitting next to Harry on the sofa in the lounge of her flat in Mossley Hill, Melissa began to shake. She buried her head in her hands and made muffled sobs.

For his part, Harry felt groggy, as if he'd taken a punch full in the face. Finbar's life had always seemed charmed; it was impossible to believe it was suddenly over. The Irishman had survived so much, he'd come to seem indestructible, and his death had shocked Harry profoundly; it gave him a chill reminder of every man's mortality. Despite his daze, he had been trying to listen to Melissa's disjointed answers as intently as the detective, in an effort to chart the course of Finbar's last day of life. But he was hazily aware that, for the girl's sake, the time had come for him to intervene.

‘Look, Inspector, Miss Keating has told you all she knows. She's made it clear that Finbar Rogan was alive and well when he left here this afternoon. And from what you say, I gather he was killed after darkness fell but no later than six.'

‘That is broadly correct,' said Sladdin in a guarded tone.

Harry sensed the detective was far from certain whether he was interviewing a lover tragically bereaved or a callous murderess; he certainly wasn't giving more away than was necessary. And the timing was critical. For if Finbar had been dead by six o'clock, Dermot McCray could not have killed him, on the evidence of Harry's own eyes. It must have been twenty past six when the builder had stormed out of the wine lodge and into the night. Harry could remember checking his watch against the Town Hall clock when he passed the demonstrators five minutes later.

The alarm had, according to Sladdin, been raised by a teenage courting couple, who had come across Finbar lying in the middle of a road running alongside the derelict site of Colonial Dock, a place long abandoned by shipping and nowadays frequented by lovers rather than stevedores. They had walked down the road an hour earlier, on their way to the disused hut where they used to make love each evening after school, and the body had not been there then. The sight of it as they headed back for home was one they would never forget.

A car had run over Finbar. Not once, but several times. Even described in Sladdin's clipped tone, the picture that formed in Harry's mind was dark with horror. But he knew he must banish the image of the crushed corpse from his thoughts; it was the stuff of nightmares. With a huge effort, he dragged himself back to the here and now.

‘I still don't see why you're not treating Finbar's death as a straightforward accident.'

‘We're not ruling any possibility out as yet. Nonetheless, the circumstances are suspicious.'

Harry bit his lip. He desperately wanted to hear that Finbar had not been killed on purpose. For if the death was not mischance, and McCray was not responsible, he scarcely dared contemplate an alternative explanation.

‘Remember,' he insisted, ‘it must have been difficult to see anything at Colonial Dock when the car struck him. I've not been that way for years, but as far as I can recall there's no street lighting there. And the world's full of hit-and-run joyriders.'

‘Very true,' said Sladdin, ‘but this particular driver was at the wheel of the car Mr Rogan himself hired earlier today. And as I explained before, having run over him once, the same person reversed and repeated the job a couple of times for good measure. Scarcely an innocent mistake, or even a careless one.'

Melissa lifted her head. Harry sensed she was finding it almost impossible to maintain a semblance of self-control.

‘So Finbar must have been murdered?'

‘As I say, we have to consider everything. And that's why I asked you if you could think of any reason for Mr Rogan to be visiting Colonial Dock this evening.'

‘None - none whatsoever,' said Melissa edgily. ‘It's hardly surprising. There were so many things he kept from me.'

Harry felt the conversation was drifting into dangerous waters. ‘Can we leave it there for the moment, please?' he said to Sladdin. ‘This news has obviously come as a great shock to Miss Keating. And whilst she's anxious to assist your enquiries, she's suffered enough for the present.'

Sladdin looked at the silent WPC sitting opposite him, as if to gauge another woman's reaction to his questioning. After a pause he clambered to his feet, seeming glad of the opportunity to escape from his low rattan chair. Harry sensed the room as a whole would not meet with police approval; it was too arty, with its French posters, studio cushions and kilim rug on the floor. During his brief relationship with Melissa, Finbar had spent a good deal of time in this flat; the attic conversion above his studio which he used as a bedsitting room was poky and unappealing even before the fire had rendered it uninhabitable. But the place bore Melissa's imprint, not his.

‘Very well, Mr Devlin. You'll understand I have to pursue my investigations urgently. We'll be back in the morning; there will be a statement for your client to sign.'

Harry accompanied Sladdin and the WPC to the door of Melissa's flat. ‘I'm not saying she is my client, Inspector. At present I'm here as a friend rather than a solicitor.'

Sladdin allowed himself a sceptical smile. ‘Afraid of a conflict of interests, Mr Devlin?'

‘You can see the girl's shocked, Inspector. That's not put on for your benefit. The thought of her harming Finbar is inconceivable.'

Sladdin pursed his lips. ‘We'll be in touch.'

With the police gone, Harry returned to the living room. Melissa was blowing her nose; her cheeks were pale, her eyes puffy. She seemed as disorientated as a drunk, but he could smell no alcohol on her breath. He sat beside her on the sofa and patted her hand: not a sexual gesture, but one of support. Yet he could not remain silent.

‘Melissa, is there anything you want to tell me? Anything you didn't feel able to say to Sladdin?'

Choking back another sob, she shook her head. ‘It was as I described. Finbar came here about one o'clock. He was full of himself, since he'd spent the morning persuading his insurers to let him hire a new car far better than the Granada he lost in the bomb blast. He'd stopped on the way for a couple of drinks, getting up Dutch courage, he said, for apologising to me over his fling with Sophie. It was as if he thought the past could be rubbed out overnight.'

Harry could imagine. With Finbar, every day was a fresh start: an endearing quality in some circumstances, but maddening for those who found it less easy to forget.

‘I-I cried myself to sleep last night. First over losing him, then on top of that the job ... my mind was muddled, I blamed Finbar for everything. When he blithely assumed he could walk straight back into my life, I wanted to lash out and hurt him. A pair of scissors was lying on the table over there.'

Harry closed his eyes. It was hard enough to grasp that Finbar was dead, let alone that Melissa, rather than Dermot McCray, might have been his killer. ‘So you lunged at him?'

Melissa fiddled with a bracelet she wore. ‘I admitted it to the policeman, didn't I? You should have seen the shock on Finbar's face as I swung the scissors at him. I was screaming abuse, I'm not sure what I said. He wiped the back of his hand across his cheeks and saw the blood. A surface cut, nothing more, but it must have stung.'

‘Did he fight back?'

‘Grabbed my wrist, made me drop the scissors, nothing more. He was never a physically vicious man. The roughest thing I ever knew him do was nibble my neck.'

The Great Lover would not be doing that again. Harry felt sick in his stomach, but something prompted him to keep on with the questions.

‘What did he say to you?'

‘I don't think he could believe I might want to hurt him, cause him pain. Finbar always had a blind spot - he could never conceive that, deep down, whatever was said and whatever was done, people might not capitulate to his charm. He saved himself by instinct, but once the immediate shock passed, he seemed sad. He told me I wasn't myself and I screamed back at him. I said that was exactly what I was, I was myself and I belonged to me, not him. I'd never forgive him for how he'd behaved, humiliating me with Sophie, costing me a job I cared about. Never!'

Harry could picture the scene. Even when confronted by all Sinead's bitterness, Finbar had failed to grasp why she felt so badly let down. With Melissa, it would have been exactly the same: impossible for the Irishman to understand why a woman who loved him might not be able to tolerate his sneaking her colleague off to a hotel for a little afternoon delight.

‘He kept repeating he was sorry, he'd never meant to make me unhappy, far less get the sack. He was so sure we could go back to where we'd been before he betrayed me.'

‘And you put him right on that score?'

‘Of course. I was furious!'

Harry studied her, trying to see beyond the emotional words and the nervous mannerisms. How angry had Melissa been? Furious enough to kill?

‘So you told him to go?'

‘As I told the policeman. I said he should fuck off back to his fancy woman.'

On her lips, the obscenity sounded shocking. It gave him a clue to her depth of feeling. He needed to be careful how far he pushed her.

‘You mean Sophie?'

‘Who else? I'd gone through enough with Finbar, I wasn't prepared to take any more. I decided she could have him.'

‘What made you think he still had a chance with her? They seemed at daggers drawn during the argey-bargey last night in Empire Hall.'

‘Oh yes, she's volatile enough. But I could tell he had something - or should I say some
one
? - up his sleeve. As soon as he realised he'd get no more change out of me, it was as if he'd written me off his conquest list, for the time being at least, and was ready to move on. No reason why he shouldn't try his luck with Sophie again. She's as hungry for sex as Finbar was. It's common knowledge in the office that she's got a season ticket to the VD clinic.'

She was saying much more than she had earlier, in answer to Sladdin's probing. The initial shock of learning that her lover was dead had rendered her almost incoherent; on Harry's arrival she'd been weeping copiously, with the WPC trying in vain to comfort her. He sensed she was starting to gain strength once more. Might she also be seizing any opportunity to embarrass Sophie and make things difficult for her? Was she taking revenge over her rival regardless of the truth - or was her real motive to divert attention from herself? After all, she lacked an alibi. Sladdin had established that she was unable to prove she had not left Mossley Hill during the afternoon and travelled to the city centre or the dock area, either alone or in Finbar's company. She said she'd stayed at home all day, too depressed to leave this flat. No one had called and she admitted that none of the neighbours would be able to verify her movements. Most of them worked all day and of the two pensioners in the building, one was stone deaf and the other was living it up on an over-60s trip to Madeira.

‘What sort of mood was Finbar in when he left?'

Melissa gnawed at her fingernails. ‘I don't know why you're asking me so many questions. I wanted you here to protect me from an inquisition, not start one of your own.'

‘Sorry,' he said untruthfully. Was she buying time while she thought up a credible reply? ‘I won't bother you much longer, but I'm as keen as anyone to make sure the facts come out, to pinpoint anything which will help the police to find Finbar's murderer.'

‘Why concern yourself?' she asked, her tone harsh. ‘He's dead now. He won't be paying any more of your bills.'

‘He hardly kept me in luxury whilst he was alive. I seem to have spent most of the past few days defending him from people who had good cause to despise him.'

‘The truth is, you can't resist poking your nose into other people's business, can you? This detection thing - it's a kind of game where you're concerned.'

Harry felt himself flushing. He was honest enough to accept there was a grain of truth in the slur.

‘Finbar didn't deserve to die.'

‘That's a matter of opinion. To answer your question, when he left here he was still in one piece. You'll have to take my word for it. Knowing him as I do - as I do
now
, I should say - I expect he was thinking: easy come, easy go.'

Harry winced. Finbar himself had used exactly that phrase.

‘I didn't ask him for a lift into town, if that's what you're hinting. Or arrange to meet him later.'

‘I just wondered - if there was anything else you wanted to say to me, something you might have forgotten to mention to Sladdin in the aftermath of the shock. Or something - it might be entirely innocent - you felt you'd rather not disclose.'

‘You never give up, do you? We're not in court, Harry, and I'm not on the witness stand.'

‘Look, Melissa I realise things have been tough lately and your emotions...'

‘
Emotions
! Where Finbar is concerned, I only have one emotion. I'm glad. Not glad he'd dead, so much, simply glad he's out of my life for ever, and won't be coming back to treat me like shit ever again.' For a moment her expression froze in defiance, before dissolving into tears.

Harry hesitated, then put an arm around her shoulder. He expected resistance, but all she did was sob. ‘Cry as much as you like,' he said. ‘It will do you good.'

She brushed at her damp face with a hand. ‘Oh God, Harry, what a fucking mess. Finbar's dead and I'm alone and out of work and the world seems to have stopped moving.'

Neither of them said anything for a minute or so. Finally he withdrew his arm.

‘Thanks for coming over,' she said. ‘I panicked when the police called, didn't know what else to do but call you.'

‘No problem.'

‘I appreciate it. After all, you were Finbar's friend, not mine.' She compressed her lips and gave him a look full of challenge. ‘So - do you think I murdered him?'