“Unlikely, I think. But even if you’re right, that still leaves the question — where is Alison?”
Grealish spread his arms. “Don’t ask me.”
Harry became aware of someone hovering above his elbow.
“Ready to order, sir?”
Harry dealt with the waiter and then turned back to the blonde girl. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Valerie shifting impatiently in her seat.
“Sorry, love,” he whispered. “Won’t be a minute.” To Stephanie he said, “The police are sure to be in touch with you soon. Any idea where Claire might be?”
“None. None at all. You don’t think…”
“What?”
“That she might have been murdered by — you know — The Beast?”
“For Chrissake,” said Grealish. “What sort of conversation is this for a Sunday evening? The girl’s done a runner, I expect. Lots of kids do. Who wouldn’t with old Jack as a father? Don’t worry yourself about this Beast, Steph. He hasn’t murdered anyone yet. That’s not how he gets his fun.”
Again he bared his teeth in a crafty grin. And for a moment Harry found himself comparing the face of Bryan Grealish to a vulpine mask, like something worn by The Beast himself.
Chapter Twelve
“Now will you accept he’s a murderer?”
Not even a fuzzy telephone line could disguise Doreen Capstick’s told-you-so triumph.
“Doreen, for God’s sake! The man’s daughter is missing.”
“Exactly. And why? I’ll tell you. Because she’s met the same terrible fate as Alison.”
Harry closed his eyes and reminded himself to be patient. “So you’re not letting us have the apology we asked for?”
“You must be joking! Your letter’s in the wastepaper basket. Sue and be damned, that’s what I say to your precious Mr. Stirrup.”
“In that case, to borrow your slogan, au revoir.”
At the same time that Harry put down the receiver, Jim stuck his head round the door.
“Fancy a chicken salad at the Traders’?”
After the Ensenada, club food had no more appeal than a school dinner, but Harry was glad to escape the phone. The morning’s many interruptions had not helped him forget the unsatisfactory finale to the previous evening. He and Valerie had dined well and not been troubled by further conversation with Grealish. Harry’s hopes had been high when he’d driven them to her flat in Crosby, but she hadn’t invited him in. The turn-down had been gentle: she’d said she had a busy day ahead and wanted an early night, and he believed her. He didn’t want to push his luck, so he had kissed her once then hurried away. But the sense of so-near-yet-so-far was impossible to shake off.
Waiting for Jim in reception, Harry felt a tap on his shoulder. He could somehow tell it was a gesture of reproach.
“On your way out? I’ve come specially to see you.” Jonah Deegan’s tone implied that he was the victim of a conspiracy.
Harry uttered a silent prayer for strength. “Any news?”
“Be reasonable. It’s early days yet.” Jonah wrinkled his brow. “And a difficult case. No two ways about it.”
“Heard about Claire?”
“Read about it in the paper. That’s why I’m here. What happened?”
Jim came into reception. “Hello, Jonah. Found the Maltese Falcon yet? Busy now, Harry?”
“I’ll catch you up at the club. Mine’s a pint of best.”
“Thought the chicken salad sounded too clean living to be true. See you around, Columbo.”
As the door closed behind the big man, Harry turned back to Jonah and gave him a brief account of the events of the past couple of days. “So step-mother and step-daughter are both nowhere to be found,” he concluded. “Coincidence? Hard to believe. But not impossible. Do you have any ideas?”
Deegan scratched his nose. “I saw them both on Friday. Stirrup at his office, the girl at the house. Spoiled little madam, I thought. She didn’t want to talk. But he seemed devoted enough. To her, not his old lady.”
“Could it be Stirrup murdered Alison — and Claire did a runner for some unconnected reason?”
“Possible.” Jonah contemplated the floor. His gloom was enough to wipe the smile off a Cheshire Cat. Perhaps he was remembering all the evil deeds he had encountered during his years with the police. Or perhaps his arthritis was troubling him. “He might have disposed of them both and spirited away the corpses. But how the hell he’d do it, I don’t know. The human body isn’t easy to hide.”
“So what next?”
“I keep looking for Mrs. Stirrup. I had a quick scout round her room at the house, it gave me one or two ideas. Long shots, mind. And I still need to talk to some friends of hers. Stirrup’s not paying me to search for the kid. The police can do that better anyway.”
“Do you think Alison’s dead?”
“Maybe. Not suicide. Accident’s possible. Amnesia too, come to that. But she might just have decided to pack in her old life and start again.”
“Abandoning her mother and her claim to a slice of Stirrup’s worldly goods?”
“Hard to credit, I agree. Abandoning her mother’s easier to understand, by all I’ve been told. Matter of fact, I’m seeing the Capstick woman this afternoon.”
“Good luck.”
“I’ll need it, by the sound of things. I gather she’s a tartar. Any road, don’t let Stirrup confess to double murder till you’ve got some cash on account of my fees.”
“What happened to the poor but honest gumshoe, turning down the client’s tainted money?”
“He didn’t have Liverpool Corporation on his back, demanding a councillor’s ransom in bloody poll tax.”
After Jonah had shambled out, the rumbling of his stomach reminded Harry that he was hungry. He sprinted over to the Traders’, barely casting a glance at the bikini-clad girls sunning themselves in the Parish Church gardens. At the members’ bar, the pint of best awaited him together with Jim, who was already in conversation.
His companion was a snappily dressed young man in dark glasses, who had put his portable phone on the counter as if he expected an urgent call at any moment. The Thatcher era might have drawn to a close, but Oswald Fowler remained a yuppie to his fingertips.
“Harry, mate,” he drawled. “I’ve been meaning to give you a ring. You sent me a client. Trevor Morgan.”
“Don’t tell me, you needed air freshener to kill the booze fumes after he’d gone.”
A smile flitted across Fowler’s face. “Your client’s obviously driven mine to drink.”
“Between you and me, Jack may be willing to cough up a few quid if pushed. Without prejudice, of course.”
“I’d have to take instructions.” The tone was non-committal but Fowler could not quite hide the dollar signs in his eyes. A quick settlement was good for cash flow and he had long mastered the knack of matching the effective conduct of his clients’ litigation with his own self-interest.
“Jack always wanted to see Trevor right financially. Until now, the problem’s simply been one of pride. Neither of them wanted to make the first move. But Trevor needs the money.”
Fowler nodded. “I had to take the case on legal aid.” He made it sound like a donation to charity. “Morgan’s life is in a mess. No job, no cash, no wife.”
“Has Cathy walked out on him now?”
“Earlier this year. His dismissal was the last straw, by the sound of things. The main danger is that any compensation he gets will be eaten up in alimony if and when she starts proceedings.”
Harry kept a discreet silence. If anyone could advise Trevor on how best to keep a windfall from Stirrup Wines out of any matrimonial negotiations, it was Ossie Fowler.
“He’s at the end of his tether,” continued Fowler as he sipped the last of his G and T, his tone as indifferent as that of a Met Office man forecasting typhoons in the tropics. “Desperate. I did wonder if he might top himself. Though I imagine he’s never sober enough to knot a noose to swing in. However, we aren’t our clients’ keepers. Thank God! Anyway, I must dash. Got to arrest a ship this afternoon.”
“Hope it gives up without a struggle.”
“You recommended Morgan to see Ossie?” asked Jim as they found themselves a table. “Why exactly are we advising someone to sue our best client?”