If Special Branch continued to be involved, a terrorist connection with the crime could not have been ruled out. Did that point the finger back at Dermot McCray? Might McCray have been an associate of Pearse Cato back in Ireland in days gone by? Harry thought it possible, despite Finbar’s denial. Yet how could McCray have killed Finbar and drunk with Graham-Brown and his blonde bit-on-the-side at one and the same time?
Of course, McCray might have slipped out of the wine lodge whilst Harry was supping in the Plimsoll Line. However, the idea that he might have done so, quickly taken his revenge on Finbar and then raced back simply to conclude his argument with Graham-Brown stretched credulity to breaking point. Harry suspected that McCray had given Finbar a fright with the fire and the bomb; but someone else had managed to finish him off before the builder had the chance.
All this speculation was, Harry knew, idle; the police were in charge of the investigation and the sensible course — and the soft option — was to leave them to it. But sensible courses and soft options held no appeal for him. Finbar, for all his faults, was entitled to justice. Harry owed it to him to find out what had happened. All his training in the legal process, his learning to see it as trial by combat, adversarial rather than inquisitorial, had never succeeded in smothering his urge to discover the truth. He could feel now the physical signs of the hunger which had in the past cost him dear. The churning in his stomach was familiar, so too the dryness in his throat: no point in pretending otherwise. He couldn’t be satisfied, wouldn’t find peace, while the puzzle remained unsolved.
‘Time for a song from the latest Luther Vandross album,’ said Baz in the background. He sounded relaxed, unaffected by doom and gloom from the newsroom. It was as if he had never met the man whose death had just been reported. ‘Luther’s a special favourite of my lovely producer, Sophie Wilkins, so you can expect to hear plenty more from him for the rest of this week.’
Harry considered Sophie. Last night he’d paid little heed to Melissa’s suggestion that, on leaving her flat, Finbar could have headed straight for Sophie’s arms, because it had seemed so unlikely. Harry’s reading of the row at Empire Hall had been that Sophie’s priority was to re-establish herself in Nick Folley’s affections; she wouldn’t see any long-term future for herself as one of Finbar’s fancy women. Harry guessed her visit to the Blue Moon had been prompted by a fleeting lust rather than any desire for a more lasting relationship. On the other hand, Finbar was ever the optimist. If anyone had a skin thick enough to turn up again on Sophie’s doorstep, he was the man.
A visit to Radio Liverpool was called for, Harry decided. But before he went there he would need to work out exactly what he intended to do — there must be no more cocked-up confrontations. The humiliating encounter with Dermot McCray in Fenwick Court still burned in his memory.
As he stepped out of the Empire Dock buildings, he felt the morning’s cold bite. Fog shrouded both the river and the city streets. It gave everything an eerie feel, with cars and people suddenly looming from nowhere. As he walked towards the front door of his office, he was struck by the calm of Fenwick Court. It took him a moment to realise the reason for it: there was no sign of McCray’s workers. He peered through the gloom to left and right. It didn’t require a site agent to tell him that the job was barely half done, yet the courtyard was deserted.
‘Where’s the building gang?’ he asked as he entered reception.
Suzanne shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
Finbar’s death should have been mystery enough for him to worry over without the distraction of wondering what had happened to McCray’s men. But their disappearance bothered him and, as he picked up his post and wandered to his room, he began to wonder if it might be connected with their boss’s activities the previous evening. A call from Suzanne interrupted his conjectures.
‘Mrs Graham-Brown’s arrived. She says she must see you. She’s just received your letter about her house sale falling through.’ The girl paused and then added, in a complacent whisper, ‘She seems very upset.’
The shock of Finbar’s death had almost made him forget how much he wanted to see Rosemary again. Although he didn’t kid himself that she had come here to do anything more than discuss the Ambroses’ default, he was glad she had risen to his bait, and the sight of her husband with the hard-faced blonde had made him wonder again about the state of the Graham-Browns’ marriage. Was she unaware Stuart was playing away from home — and if he told her, how would she react?
He went out to greet her. She was perched on the edge of her chair, as if she didn’t feel she had the right to be there. He was shocked to see how pale she looked; in her haste to get out that morning, she hadn’t bothered with make-up. Her face looked younger than ever — and pinched with anxiety.
‘I got your letter,’ she said. ‘This is dreadful news. How can people behave like this? I had to come over to see you straight away.’
He took her to his room. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been upset. Snags like these do occur from time to time. Of course, you will be wanting to press the Ambroses for compensation for your inconvenience.’
‘The money’s not important,’ she said.
How many times had Harry heard clients utter that sentiment? It was the regular refrain of the obsessive litigants who talked a lot about principles and kept lawyers in business. Almost invariably it was untrue. Yet when Rosemary wore that earnest expression, he could not help believing her. She seemed to have been shattered by his news.
‘You have a fine property,’ he said. ‘You’ll find another buyer, sooner or later.’
She waved the suggestion away with an angry jerk of her hand. ‘That might take ages and we can’t afford to hang around. You don’t understand, it’s so important that this sale goes through. Surely you can do something?’
She had a beseeching look that he found hard to resist. He was a fool to be flattered by her faith in him, he knew, but he could not help it. In a gentler tone, he said, ‘I’m sorry. You do have various rights. But you can’t force the Ambroses to buy at the point of a gun.’
She closed her eyes and he moved his chair close to hers. Greatly daring, he took her hand in his.
‘Why is it so important, Rosemary? Surely a few weeks don’t make any difference.’ He paused. ‘Especially when Stuart hasn’t even got round yet to telling his staff that he’s leaving town for good.’
She stared at him and withdrew her hand. ‘What? You don’t have any connection with Merseycredit!’
‘The firm had a stand at an exhibition I was attending. I came across it quite by chance.’
‘Have you — have you spoken to Stuart?’
She was stunned by what he was saying, no question about it. He determined to press home his advantage.
‘No, not yet. But I’ve seen him and, though it’s none of my business, I can’t say I like the company he keeps.’
‘What do you mean?’
She seemed genuinely puzzled by his remark. He had to make a split-second decision whether to tell her about her husband’s fancy woman. He chose to leave that to one side; his first concern was to ask after Dermot. Even as they talked, an idea had been forming in his mind which would explain why the builder and financier had got together.
‘There’s a man called Dermot McCray, a local builder — I believe he may have links with an Irish terrorist organisation. I’ve seen him drinking with Stuart and I’ve wondered what they had in common. The answer may be that McCray has funds he needs to launder: illicit money, to be sent back to Ireland perhaps. A company like Merseycredit might be able to help.’
It was a long shot, of course. He had no hard facts to support his theory. And yet if McCray was involved with terrorists it would explain a good deaclass="underline" not only the bomb, but perhaps also the odd behaviour of the building workers.