His flirtation with stardom was over.
Chapter Seven
‘Have you heard the news?’
Suzanne’s tone as he arrived at the office was hushed, yet her eyes sparkled with excitement. The carefully contrived anxiety of her frown didn’t fool Harry. Joy-in-gloom was Suzanne’s speciality; the misfortunes of others were her meat and drink.
Act soft, he told himself. Ten to one all that’s happened is the temp has walked out in a huff.
‘Heard it? I was actually in the studio when it was broadcast. Sterling’s at an all-time low, unemployment’s on the rise. Anything else you want to know?’
A cloud of bafflement passed across her face.
‘You what? Oh, you were doing your thing on Radio Liverpool! God, I forgot to listen. I always tune in to Radio City, you see — the music’s better. No, I was meaning the news about Mr. Crusoe.’
‘What’s up? Lost a bundle of deeds, has he?’
‘No, no, nothing like that. He’s had an accident!’
Harry felt a sudden sickness in his stomach. ‘What sort of accident?’
‘A car crash.’ Suzanne lingered on the words. No question, she was in her element. ‘There was a pile-up in the fog last night.’
Christ, yes, he’d heard something about it on the air earlier that morning. Not paid much attention, of course; other people’s tragedies seldom strike us as significant compared to our own preoccupations. Now his apprehension whilst waiting to join Baz Gilbert seemed like self-indulgence. His heart beating faster, he demanded, ‘And Jim — is he all right?’
‘He’s alive,’ said Suzanne. ‘His wife phoned, she’s been with him at the Royal through the night. The rescue people had to use special equipment to get him out of his Sierra, she said.’
The girl sounded sorry she’d missed the chance of sightseeing at the scene of the carnage. Harry could barely restrain himself from grabbing her by the throat.
‘So what’s happened? Is he badly hurt?’
‘He’s fractured a couple of ribs and his face was cut by the flying glass. And he’s still very groggy, not able to make much sense, according to Mrs. Crusoe. The doctors say it’s too early to tell how bad things are. They have to make tests.’
Harry swore. His knees felt as though they were about to buckle and he sat down hard on one of the chairs reserved for clients. Jim Crusoe was more than merely a business partner. He was Harry’s anchor.
‘Where is Heather? I must talk to her.’
‘She said she’d call again in ten minutes.’
‘Let me know as soon as she does. Never mind if I’m with a client, interrupt.’
Suzanne smiled at him. She’d had her pleasure and could afford kindliness. In a motherly tone, she said, ‘So how was the show?’ Before he could reply, a bleep from the switchboard distracted her.
‘Crusoe and Devlin. Oh, Mrs. Crusoe … yes, he’s just got back. Shall I…’
Harry snatched the receiver from her hand. ‘Heather? How is he?’
‘Could be worse, Harry. Could be better. He spent the night in intensive care, but he’s lucky to be in one piece. Some of the others in the crash aren’t.’
Stress shortened Heather Crusoe’s comfortable Wigan vowels, yet her characteristic calm had not altogether deserted her and in a handful of sentences she answered Harry’s agitated questions. Jim didn’t remember anything about the accident, but the police thought it had been caused by a car travelling too fast round a blind corner in the opposite direction, hurtling to disaster on the wrong side of the road. Three dead and a dozen injured, by the latest count. Jim’s windscreen had shattered and his face was a mess — she said it as matter-of-factly as if she were describing a cut finger — but the main concern was whether he’d suffered any internal damage. Soon the truth would be known.
‘No point in panic,’ she said. ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine. Jim’s so strong — it would take more than some maniac with more horsepower than sense to finish him off.’
Harry groped for words. No one was more keenly aware than he that road disasters can change lives, as well as destroying them. His parents had been killed by a fire engine frantically responding to a 999 call which proved to be a hoax. And he had once watched as another spectacular crash, to this day etched in his mind, had helped in part to avenge the murder of his wife.
‘If there’s anything I can…’
‘Thanks, but there’s nothing at present,’ said Heather.
Harry detected a tremor in her voice but in an instant it was gone. She said she was okay, the kids were okay, the hospital wouldn’t welcome outside visitors until people had a clearer idea about Jim’s condition. She would keep in close touch.
After hanging up, Harry went to talk to the staff. Life must go on, and so must the legal process: clients still had wills to make, houses to buy and sell, businesses to trade.
‘I’ll take all his property files,’ offered Sylvia Reid. Traces of tears stained her cheeks. A plump and serious girl, she’d been distressed by the news about Jim. He had been her principal during her two years as an articled clerk and to the partners’ surprise — and considerable relief — after qualifying as a solicitor she had stayed on instead of moving elsewhere. Given the modest level of salaries which were all Crusoe and Devlin could afford, there could be no surer sign of loyalty.
They were in Jim’s room, confronting a mountain of files and must-do memo notes. Harry flipped open his partner’s diary.
‘You can handle both the completions this morning? Fine. And what’s this appointment in the afternoon regarding a contract for Crow’s Nest House?’
‘That will be Mrs. Graham-Brown. A big sale, no purchase. Everything has to happen yesterday — you know the sort of thing.
Harry’s skin prickled. An opportunity to see the lovely Rosemary again was a chance too good to miss.
‘As a matter of fact,’ he lied, ‘I know a little about the file. Leave it to me. I’ll see her.’
Sylvia could not conceal her amazement. Conveyancing and Harry Devlin had as much in common as karaoke and Kiri te Kanawa.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Do me good to brush up on the non-contentious work,’ he said, straight-faced. He located the file and returned to his room feeling pleased with himself, although he realised he was behaving absurdly. The woman was married to a rich man and would soon be leaving the country — the situation would challenge even Finbar Rogan’s seductive wiles. Harry knew that he should not even fantasise about Rosemary. No good could come of it. And yet…
The morning flew by. At lunchtime he went out to buy a sandwich and saw the builders gathered together in a huddle, talking in low Irish voices. Their expressions were sullen and an atmosphere of suspicion hung over the courtyard. He hurried past, wondering when the construction work would be finished. He remembered that the Anglican Cathedral had taken most of the twentieth century to complete; perhaps the same firm had been hired for the job in Fenwick Court.
As he got back to his desk, the phone was ringing.
‘Harry, would you mind if I speak to Finbar, please?’ Melissa Keating said.
‘He’s not here,’ Harry replied, puzzled.
‘Really? He didn’t keep his appointment to discuss the insurance compensation after the fire?’
‘What appointment?’
Too late to keep the surprise out of his voice, Harry realised he must be letting his client down. Finbar had obviously been using him as an alibi. ‘Wait a minute,’ he added hastily, feeling shame at his half-hearted entry into a masculine conspiracy to mislead, ‘perhaps he did mention…’
‘Forget it,’ said Melissa. Her voice was muffled; he sensed she was close to tears. ‘I understand perfectly. And by the way, I thought you sounded good on Pop In this morning, Very plausible. Just like Finbar, in fact. Goodbye.