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.
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.’