“Want me to have a word with Jack?”
“No point.”
“Take a look in the mirror, Trevor. You can’t carry on this. You’ll kill yourself.”
“No great loss, Harry.”
“For God’s sake, you need to pull yourself together. Give Ossie Fowler a ring. He’s a solicitor in the Albert Dock, if anyone can squeeze blood out of a stone, he can. Get him to write to Jack. I’d have to advise on the whys and wherefores, maybe some deal could be struck. It’s what Jack really wants, as well as you. But once he’s taken a decision, he’ll not change it without a little pressure.”
Trevor Morgan rubbed his stubbly chin. “I won’t go to him cap in hand. I’ll have to think about it. You…”
“Mr Devlin, you’re wanted.”
The voice was low and insistent. Harry felt a bony hand grip his shoulder. He turned to look into the eyes of Ronald Sou, his court clerk.
“Your case is on. The bench is ready.”
“Okay, Ronald. Thanks.” Harry nodded at Morgan. “Must go. Accept the advice, won’t you? Free, gratis and for nothing — and I haven’t even asked you to sign a legal aid form.”
He hurried into court and atoned for his lateness with a plea in mitigation (a sick wife and a brood of young kids, always handy) which probably shaved his larcenous client’s fine in half. When it was over he dropped his briefcase back at the office before dodging through the traffic on the Strand on his way towards the river.
He felt a rare sense of self-satisfaction as he approached the front of the dock complex. Making his way from the Pump House to the waterfront, pint of beer in hand, was a stooped but sturdy figure. Even from a rear view, the cardigan was unmistakable.
“Wondered if I might find you here,” Harry said as he caught the man up.
Jonah Deegan didn’t reveal any surprise at being thus accosted. He sipped his beer and looked at the ships moored at the quayside.
“Brought my cheque?”
“Not even received your bill yet. Teach you to rely on second class post.”
Jonah contrived a grumbling noise while sipping at his pint. “I don’t come here every day, you know.”
“Never said you did, Jonah. But I know how you like looking at the old ships.”
Jonah nodded and jerked a thumb towards a brigantine on the Canning Half Tide Dock. A horde of small boys was swarming over it, whooping with glee.
“Don’t make ‘em like that any more. Though it’s a sad end. Proud vessel that sailed the seas. Become a bloody tourist attraction for kids who’ve never seen anything rougher than the Mersey from the side of a ferryboat.”
“Did you prefer this place when it was derelict for all those years?”
Jonah did not reply. After a while he said, “So you fancy yourself as a detective, eh? Tracking me down here. What d’you want?”
Harry explained about the disappearance of Alison Stirrup. Jonah showed not a semblance of interest. Most of the time he kept his eyes on the ships.
“Not my usual kind of thing,” he said when Harry had run out of breath.
“Don’t play hard to get. The money’s good.”
“So you’re not my client?”
“Very witty. Of course, you’re acting for Stirrup. I’m just the messenger.”
Jonah drained his glass. “Needed that. Get us another, will you? Have one yourself if you want.”
He made no offer to pay but Harry went to The Pump House anyway. When he returned with two full glasses, Jonah wandered over to the walkway leading to the riverside.
“Used to come here as a kid, you know. To watch the ships. More of ‘em in those days, of course. I used to think they were all off to America. Reckoned the States were just the other side of the horizon.”
He took his beer without comment. “Did he kill her, d’you think?”
“Stirrup?”
“Who else? Does he want to look like an anxious husband? Hiring me when the trail’s gone cold?”
“What more can he do? You work on the assumption he’s innocent till proven guilty.”
“Said like a true lawyer.” A lifetime’s cynicism packed into five words.
“So you’re turning the job down?”
“Never said that. I’ll look for her.” The old man shrugged his shoulders. “Besides, you said yourself, Stirrup is loaded, don’t mind taking a few quid off him.”
“Now who’s talking like a lawyer?”
Chapter Eight
Harry arrived at Balliol Chambers on the stroke of four to find Stirrup and Claire already in the waiting room. His client sprang to his feet, breezy and confident, a typical litigant at square one, as yet unconcerned by the law’s uncertainties and delays. The girl looked preoccupied and didn’t respond to Harry’s hello.
“All set, Harry? Ready when you are. The — what d’you call him? — clerk was here a minute ago. He said this Mr. Hamer would like a word with you first.”
Julian’s door was ajar. As Harry walked in, the barrister came from behind his desk to shake hands.
“Good to see you.” His smile lacked humour. “Especially as you seem to have a client with money to burn.”
“If only there were more of them.”
“Yes, yes. But this letter — really, he’s a fool if he doesn’t simply write it off to experience. You weren’t born yesterday. You know that as well as I do.”
Hamer’s testiness surprised Harry. Usually he was as urbane as a hereditary peer. Today shadows lurked under his eyes, as if he were short of sleep. What were you up to last night? Harry hoped he didn’t know the answer.
“How will he take being advised to forget the whole thing?”
“Badly, Julian. He’s after blood.”
“For Heaven’s sake! He’s more than likely killed his wife and got away with it. Does he want to bump off his motherin-law too? And his daughter’s here, I’m told. Really, Harry, you should have spared me the child.”
“Waste of time, I agree. But Jack insisted. He has ideas about her studying for the Bar.”
At least she’s got the basic attribute, a touch of the prima donna, he might have added. But didn’t.
“Very well. Wheel them in.”
As Harry made the introductions, he saw Stirrup absorb with approval the mahogany furnishings, the instructions to Counsel tied with pink ribbon which were piled high everywhere, the bookcases filled with calfskin-bound law reports and a complete set of Halsbury’s Statutes. Claire confined her greeting to an adolescent mumble.
Denise, David Base’s deputy clerk, came in bearing a tray of tea in a silver pot and dainty china cups. Stirrup beamed. Value for money, his expression said, civilised behaviour in the finest tradition of the English legal system. Julian rather spoiled the moment by letting his cup slip from his hand, spilling its contents on to the carpet. A moment of clumsiness out of keeping with his customary elegance of word and deed. But Denise mopped up and order was restored.
When at last Hamer spoke he had switched to his courtroom manner. Each syllable had a resonance that even Harry found compelling.
“I must congratulate you, Mr. Stirrup.” A sentence of imprisonment might have been pronounced with less gravity.
“I don’t follow.”
Hamer indicated the slim bundle of papers which Harry had sent round to him. His expression of judicial solemnity matched his tone. “I have read the letter. In my view, it contains a plain libel. I take it for granted that in your daughter’s eyes your reputation is excellent and this Mrs….” — he cleared his throat before enunciating the name with as much distaste as an old maid might describe a crude bodily function — “… Capstick, has certainly done her best to tarnish it. Yet it takes a man of some courage to pursue an action of this kind in your — ah, present circumstances. A man, as well, with a deep pocket, for in the case of a libel published to a single party, your daughter here, your damages will be small and the cost great. Not merely cost in terms of legal fees, although those will be heavy — even, I should emphasise, if your claim ultimately succeeds. But there are other costs in litigation and…”