Authors: Martin Edwards
Tags: #detective, #noire, #petrocelli, #Hard-Boiled, #suspense, #marple, #Crime, #whodunnit, #death, #Lawyers, #morse, #taggart, #christie, #legal, #Fiction, #shoestring, #poirot, #law, #murder, #killer, #holmes, #ironside, #columbo, #police, #clue, #hoskins, #Thriller, #solicitor, #hitchcock, #cluedo, #Mystery & Detective, #cracker, #diagnosis, #Devlin; Harry (Fictitious Character)
âI do need to talk to you.'
McCray grunted in derision. âCome to make another accusation?'
âI want to ask you about Pearse Cato.'
Chapter Twenty-Four
âWhat's this got to do with Rogan?' asked Dermot McCray ten minutes later.
âIt might explain why he was killed,' said Harry. He felt excited but dazed. Every hour that passed was bringing him closer to the truth.
McCray glared at Liam and jerked a thumb towards Harry. âYour mate's off his head. Thought so the first time I met him. He reckoned I'd tried to murder Rogan.' A sour quirk of the lips. âWish I had.'
Liam looked bewildered by the conversation. âHarry, I haven't a whore's notion of what you're trying to prove, but you're treading on risky ground for sure.'
âThe story of my life,' said Harry. He extended his hand to McCray. âThanks for your help - I appreciate it. And I apologise for what I said to you at Fenwick Court the other day. I was on the wrong track.'
McCray looked at the hand, then grunted and looked away. âRogan killed my Eileen. Same as if he'd shot her between the eyes.'
âHe's dead now,' said Harry. âShe's been avenged.'
McCray's face might have been part of Mount Rushmore. He gazed into the depths of his glass as Harry and Liam walked slowly back to the stairs.
âYou mind how you go,' said the doorman as they approached the exit. âLord knows what you're up to, but whatever it is, I don't like it. You're talking about serious business here.'
âCato's even colder than Finbar,' said Harry. âThere's nothing to fear from him.'
âYou don't understand what you're messing with. If the men in balaclavas killed Finbar...'
âNo, they never touched him.'
âWhat? I thought you were suggesting...'
Harry pulled open the door giving on to the alley. Curls of mist wafted inside the building and the fog outside had thickened.
âI was suggesting nothing, Liam. Thanks for introducing me to McCray. Without you, I'd not have got a word out of him.'
Spreading his arms, Liam waved away gratitude. âAll I ask is, when you do figure out who ran Finbar down, you let me know. I'd like five minutes with the bastard before the police get involved.
Harry stepped out into the murk, edging towards the MG like a blind man deprived of dog and stick. He was glad that at least the fog in his own head was starting to clear.
Once back at his flat, he tossed a pre-cooked meal into the microwave before scouring through his cupboards and wardrobe.
As if in preparation for a jumble sale, he gathered together oddments of clothing he should have thrown out years ago: a black three-piece suit which had scarcely fitted in his days as a trainee lawyer, when he was ten years younger and did not have a beer gut; a graduation gown borrowed from a fellow Polytechnic student who had not wanted its return; an old bow tie, souvenir of Harry's one and only attendance at a Law Society Dinner; a plain white shirt which testified to his lack of expertise with an iron.
Having eaten, he changed into the outfit he had assembled. Then, after slicking back his hair with the pungent lotion a distant relative had given him one long-forgotten Christmas, he stood in front of the bedroom mirror and experimented with a lascivious smile.
A charity shop Dracula leered back at him. He lacked the aristocratic mien of the Transylvanian count, but at least the dramas of the past twenty-four hours had drained all colour from his cheeks, obviating the need for make-up. A pity he didn't have sharper teeth or longer nails.
On his way out of the flat he noticed a screwed-up ball of paper lurking in a corner of the living room. Curious, he smoothed it out. What he saw on the sheet startled him for a moment, before he realised that it reinforced the idea which had already established itself in his mind: the idea which offered an explanation for Finbar's fate.
He walked the short distance through the gloom to Empire Hall. A couple of petite Scouse girls dressed as hobgoblins were on the main door, checking invitations and collecting coats and scarves.
âRosemary and Stuart Graham-Brown invited me.'
âOf course we did,' cackled a warty-faced witch standing in the entrance lobby.
Harry took a couple of startled seconds to penetrate the crone's disguise.
âHello, Rosemary.'
âHow marvellous you've been able to come,' said his hostess, reverting to her usual tone and doffing her impossibly tall steeple hat in welcome. âA good many of our guests are already inside, but a few fainthearts have cried off because of the weather. Thanks for making the effort.'
âI only live around the corner.'
Not that it mattered, he thought. He would have battled through fog all night long for the chance of catching up with Finbar's killer.
âLet's go through.' She took his arm and guided him into the concert room. A grey phantom shimmered towards them, bearing a tray of drinks.
âWill you have a drop of punch?' she asked. He recognised the voice of the girl from Merseycredit's exhibition stand. âOr do you only drink blood?'
âI had a bite before I came out,' he said.
As Rosemary laughed, he surveyed his surroundings. This evening the lights were low in Empire Hall. Black cats cut out of cardboard prowled along the walls; broad-winged bats and ravens swooped down from the ceiling. The demonic faces of hollowed-out pumpkins with lighted candles inside grinned at him from every nook and cranny. Already the place was filling with representatives of the city's financial services sector, disguised with unconscious irony as an unholy gathering of demons. As yet there was no sign of the person Harry sought.
Misreading his mind, Rosemary said, âHallowe'en is such a fascinating time, don't you agree?' She cackled again. âThe day when the souls of the dead revisit their homes. A time to placate the supernatural powers.'
âI'd never have suspected you of an interest in pagan rites.'
âWhat else is consumer credit? Don't tell Stuart I said so, mind. Ah, talk of the devil...'
A hideous monster from the bowels of hell put a clawed hand on Rosemary's rump, then pulled off his weirdly misshapen head to reveal the grey hair and charm-laden smile of Stuart Graham-Brown.
âGrand to see you, Harry. Is my wife looking after you?' He squeezed Rosemary's shoulder. âYou seem to have cheered up, darling. This afternoon you were breathing fire and brimstone, weren't you?'
âPractising for tonight?' asked Harry.
âNo, no,' said Graham-Brown. âYou remember at lunchtime we boasted about our nanny? When we arrived home this evening, to check all was well with Rainbow before coming over here, we found Debbie with her bags packed and an immediate notice of resignation in her hand. I was livid. Told her she was in breach of contract.'
âAnd how did she react to that?'
âSaid she had the best lawyer in Liverpool and would see me in court. Stupid little bitch - as if I would believe for a minute that she could afford Maher and Malcolm's fees! Anyway, you won't mind if we circulate?'
Stuart was wearing a dog collar and a lead which Rosemary grasped between forefinger and thumb. With a hiss of pleasure, she led her husband away to meet a group of newly-arrived guests.
As Harry finished his drink someone behind him whispered, âYou'd better take care when the eats are brought round. They're covered with garlic.'
He spun round and came face to face with Sophie Wilkins. A white dress clung to her with a sensuality which mocked its virginal high neck and she was carrying a posy of dried flowers. A huge ersatz diamond ring glinted from the third finger of her left hand.
âThe undead can never be too careful,' he assured her. âYou can bet I won't be crossing the Mersey tonight.'
She giggled and he guessed she had been making free with the punch. Drink had washed away the hostility she had shown earlier in the day.
âHave you guessed who I am?'
âBride of Frankenstein?'
She clapped her hands. âWell done! You really are a detective!'
âDare I ask who Frankenstein is?'
âOne guess.'
âNick Folley? Thought as much. Is he here?'
âSomewhere around. But what brings you to this jamboree?'
âI came to find out the truth about Finbar's death.'
âDon't you ever give up?'
âLife's too short for giving up.'
She sighed. The drinks passed by again and she helped herself from the tray. As she moved closer to him, he could feel her warm breath on his face.
âI lied to you about last night.'
âI know you didn't spend it with Nick.'
âYou see, he had work to finish before he caught the London train. I left him to it, went home alone.'
âWhy did you lie?'
âYou had no right to ask! You're not the police. I'd been shocked by the news, I couldn't think straight. I didn't want Finbar's lawyer to start accusing me of murder.'
âSo you no longer have an alibi - and Finbar called to see you yesterday afternoon. I hear you didn't part the best of pals. Perhaps you followed him to the Colonial Dock and seized the chance to run him down.'
His suggestion sobered her. âNot even you can believe that.'
âSo what did happen?'
âHe turned up without warning. He'd had a few drinks and Melissa had shown him the door less than half an hour earlier. He had the nerve to say he'd enjoyed my company at the Blue Moon and hoped we could get it together again. So I gave it to him straight, told him I wouldn't be seen dead in bed with him again. An unfortunate choice of words, in the circumstances...'
âHow did he react?
âIn his usual win-a-few, lose-a-few way. As if he simply had to turn over another page of his little red book.'
âAnd how did you spend the evening?'
âAt home. Alone - I took a bottle of gin to bed with me rather than a man. Sorry, no proof - except in the alcohol.'
She put her glass and the flowers down on the floor and stood facing him with her hands on her hips, challenging him to call her a liar. He didn't much like Sophie Wilkins, but the misery in her expression touched him. He had to feel sorry for a woman so desperate for Frankenstein as to want to be his bride.
Rosemary Graham-Brown had found a microphone to welcome guests; she was promising them a night to remember. The phrase reminded Harry of the
Titanic
, which had sailed proudly from Liverpool to death and disaster.
âWe're honoured that Radio Liverpool will be broadcasting live from here later tonight as we celebrate Hallowe'en in a very special way with that enormously popular disc jockey - Mr Baz Gilbert!'
As applause broke out, Sophie shook her head. âA guy with Baz's talent reduced to this kind of crap! God, how demeaning.'
âPeople say he's been unlucky, and I'm beginning to believe it. But why did he never make it into the big time?'
âWho knows? He looks the part and he certainly has more talent than half the kids on Radio One these days. I suppose he's simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Perhaps it runs in the family.'
âHow do you mean?'
âHaven't you heard about his brother John? It's a tragic story. They were identical twins: very close, by all accounts. John was in the Army.'
Harry cast his mind back to a conversation at the Russian Convoy and his appearance on
Pop In
.
âI remember - he has a photograph in the studio.'
âRight. John was on a tour of duty in Belfast when terrorists killed him. They lured the poor kid to one of their strongholds and tortured him before blowing his head off.'
Ireland again
, thought Harry.
Whichever way I turn, I find myself looking across the Irish Sea
.
There were two questions he must ask. The first was one he'd kept forgetting to put to the Radio Liverpool crowd. To begin with, he'd had no more than idle curiosity about the answer; now he thought it crucial to the secret of Finbar's death.
âCan you cast your mind back to the morning Finbar appeared on
Pop In
?'
Sophie looked baffled. âWill I ever forget it? I'd never met him until then. God, if only I hadn't been there that day!'
âHe caused a fuss, didn't he, over his choice of music?'
âThat's right,' she said. âHe kept changing his mind about his favourite song. It sticks out in my mind, because he was behaving so oddly.'
âWhat did he do?'
âHe'd opted at first for a track by the Dubliners - lively Irish stuff. After he got in the studio he suddenly decided he wanted something different. By Val Doonican, of all people! Not my idea of Finbar's taste at all.'
âAnd the song?'
âAn old one, called “Elusive Butterfly”. I sent Tracey out in a panic to check our library and we didn't have it. So he laughed as if he was enjoying a huge joke and said he'd settle for an old Number One by Frank Ifield.'
âI might have known,' said Harry. â“I Remember You”.'
Chapter Twenty-Five
âI don't understand,' said Sophie, when she had answered his second question.
Harry had anticipated her reply. No doubt was left in his mind that at last he knew the truth.
âYou don't need to.'
âSurely you can't imagine that...'
âNever mind my imagination.' He spoke more harshly than he had intended. Sophie had confirmed his suspicions, but that afforded him no pleasure. All he wanted was to bring matters to an end.
âI must be getting back to Baz,' she said. âOh - here's Nick!'
Nick Folley approached them, blowing a kiss at Sophie, giving Harry a dismissive nod. His elaborate make-up failed to disguise the self-satisfaction of his features; he gave no hint of the loneliness and misery of Mary Shelley's monster.
Harry tensed. Folley's arrival gave him a chance to put another of his ideas to the test. He recalled that Frankenstein inspired loathing in anyone who saw it: in that, at least, he saw a point of resemblance between Folley and the creature created from the bones of charnel houses.
âDoing any business tonight?' asked Harry, not bothering to hide his contempt.
âYou never make much sense to me, Mr Devlin. What kind of business would I be doing?'
âI suppose this kind of event is ideal for trade. Plenty of rich people looking for kicks.'
âWhat in God's name are you talking about?'
âCocaine,' said Harry softly. âEasy money for a man with the right contacts. No wonder people reckon you have the Midas touch. Even if your media ventures run into trouble, there's always a market for drugs in your crowd. Does Graham-Brown help you launder the cash?'
Folley gave him a hard unblinking stare: a form of cover whilst he thought fast. Harry pressed on.
âWhen I appeared on
Pop In
, I heard the news about the haul made by Customs and Excise. Was that why you had to slip down to London last night: to pick up alternative supplies so you could be sure of keeping your customers satisfied?'
âYou're off your head,' said Folley.
âNick. ...' began Sophie.
âShut it!'
She made as if to voice a protest, then changed her mind and slunk away, dejected. Had she been aware exactly how her lover had made his fortune? Somehow, Harry doubted it.
âWhat I hate about it all,' he said, âis the way you treat people. Take Melissa. You make her dependent, then you cast her aside - you even sack her, so - '
Folley leaned forward, his hands on the lapels of Harry's jacket. âWhat has Melissa said?'
Harry remembered the man's uncontrollable temper. On another occasion he would have welcomed the chance to hit him, to strike a blow on behalf of lives ruined by addiction. But not tonight. He had so much yet to do.
He squirmed out of Folley's grasp. âShe hasn't betrayed you yet, though God knows why. I hope she'll change her mind.'
With that, he headed off through a group of fiends and phantoms, towards the makeshift studio rigged up on the stage. A glance over his shoulder confirmed that Folley was not in pursuit. Ahead of him, the bearded engineer from
Pop In
was testing for sound levels, whilst Rosemary Graham-Brown chatted to a man with the head of a wolf.
âBaz!' he called. âI'd like a word.'
The disc jockey pulled off his savage mask, his mouth stretched in a smile that his eyes did not share.
âDoesn't he make a good lycanthrope?' asked Rosemary, with a witch's glee. âWe ought to beware, of course - the werewolf is cursed by a horror that turns him into a murderous beast against his will.'
Baz raised his eyebrows in weary amusement. âHarry! We must stop meeting like this.'
âI know you're busy, but can you spare me a minute? I'd like to talk in private.'
After a second's hesitation, Baz shrugged. âOkay. But I don't have long.'
Harry led him to the fire exit at the far end of the room and lifted the bar. It gave onto a space floored with concrete at the foot of an emergency staircase: a cold and gloomy place, with one barred window barely letting through the dull glow from a riverside lamp outside. The echoing of their footsteps contrasted oddly with the muffled noise coming from the other side of the door; the antics of the party-goers seemed suddenly absurd.
Baz leaned against the wall, nonchalant. âSo what's all this about?'
âYour twin. John.'
Baz gnawed at his lower lip. âWhat possible interest can you have in my brother?'
âHe was killed by Irish terrorists, isn't that right? And specifically, I would guess, by a man called Pearse Cato.'
Baz straightened and clenched his fist. Even mention of the name seemed to anger him.
âSo people say. No one was ever convicted and the victim's family is never told exactly who tore them apart. But you're right - the powers-that-be, as well as the media, always reckoned Cato was responsible.'
âYou know he died a couple of years ago?'
A bitter smile twisted Baz's lips. âThe news I'd prayed for ever since John was murdered. I wish I could meet the men who gunned him down, simply to shake them by the hand.'
âYou wanted vengeance?'
âWho wouldn't? I loved John. There's a special bond between twins. We went our separate ways, of course. He joined the Army, all I wanted was to work in the music business. Even so, we stayed close - never rivals, simply the best of friends.'
âWhat do you know about his death?'
Baz shut his eyes. Harry wished he had not needed to put the question, forcing recollection of the past. He guessed that the memory of John Gilbert's murder was never far from the disc jockey's thoughts.
âHe was shot through the head. Not before Cato had hurt him cruelly. It was all so cowardly, so sick. How any human being can - '
Baz broke off. His eyes were open again and filling with tears. âWhat is it to you? John's dead, Cato's dead: we're talking about history.'
âDon't they say old sins cast long shadows?'
âI don't know what you're talking about.'
Harry sucked in his cheeks. He'd reached the point of no return.
âFinbar Rogan came from the same street as Pearse Cato. Were you aware of that?'
Baz stared at him. âNo. Not at all. But - what of it? Finbar was many things, by all accounts, but you're surely not telling me he was a terrorist.'
âNo, but...'
Something inside Baz seemed to break. His face grew tight and ugly, as if he were wearing the wicked mask again. He seized Harry's wrist in a painful grip and spoke in a croaky whisper. âChrist knows why you're raking over the old embers, but I don't like it. Take my advice, Harry Devlin - keep your nose out.'
âDarling, you're wanted!'
The soft urgent voice of Penny Newland startled both men. She stood behind them, framed in the doorway. At the sight of her, Baz released his hold. Harry rubbed his wrist; when he looked at the girl, she turned crimson.
âYou're due on soon,' she told her boyfriend. âSophie wants you behind the mike. Come on. I'll stay here for a bit - I need to talk to Harry.'
As Baz moved back towards the party, Harry looked straight at the girl; something in his expression seemed to hypnotise her. Baz brushed her neck with his lips, but she remained motionless.
As soon as her boyfriend had disappeared, Harry nodded at Penny. âOver here,' he mouthed.
As if in a trance, she shut the door behind her and walked towards him, her high heels clicking on the concrete. She too was clad as a vampire, all in black with flowing cape, minidress and patterned stockings. The whiteness of her complexion contrasted with the scarlet of her lips and talons. Beneath the neck of her cape he caught a glimpse of ivory shoulders.
She stopped within touching distance of him. âWhat do you want of me?'
âI think you know.'
âYou tell me.'
She folded her arms, as if determined to test her will against his.
His whole body tingled with excitement and fear. He sensed that during the next few minutes, the course of a human life would change.
âLet's start with how John Gilbert died.'
She was standing in shadow. It was too dark to read her expression.
âNow then,' she said in her soft Irish accent, âwhat more is there to say about John Gilbert's death?'
He ran his tongue over his lips. Any man would find her attractive, he thought: the thick dark hair, the almost perfect features, the bare white skin and the body-hugging dress. Penny Newland was an exciting woman.
âI believe there's a link with the killing of Finbar Rogan.'
âAnd what might that link be?'
He leaned forward. She took a couple of steps back, pinning herself in a corner by the bottom of the stairs. Advancing, he felt her shrink away from him.
âYou,' he said. âFinbar remembered you.'
She closed her eyes, seeming to hold her breath for a long moment before answering.
âAnd I ... I could never forget him. Hard though I tried, it simply wasn't possible.'
She breathed out and bowed her head. It seemed to him that she had come to a decision.
âYou see, Harry, he left his mark on me.'
As he watched in silence, she fiddled with the strings knotted at her neck and the cape slipped silently to the floor. Taking the narrow straps of her dress in the crook of each forefinger, she eased them downwards. With the straps off her shoulders, she began to peel the velvet from her, pausing only when her large dark nipples were exposed. His mouth was dry and when at last he spoke, his voice was hoarse.
âThe elusive butterflies.'
And he ran the tips of his fingers over the exquisite insects that, long ago, Finbar Rogan had tattooed on the breasts of the woman who would one day run him down.