As the happy couple heard their virtues recited, Harry cast his mind back to that torrential downpour when it seemed the heavens were trying to cleanse the land following the capture of The Beast. But rain cannot wash away everything. No one could tell how long it would take for the community’s scars of fear to fade.
With a shudder he remembered how near he had come to ruining the covert operation to entrap David Base. Scores of times he had asked himself what would have happened if he had caught up with and confronted David. A confession? Resistance? He was glad he would never find out.
When the police had arrested David in Vale Park, tucked into his tracksuit they found a ligature, a knotted strip of cord. Even Ruby Fingall would have been hard pressed to explain that and the mask away, let alone the one in ten million match between David’s DNA and the traces found on Claire’s corpse. The clerk hadn’t given his defence the opportunity to test its powers of imagination. He’d been willing to talk straight away, according to the local legal grapevine. Almost as if glad that it was all over.
The scale of the undercover effort to catch The Beast had become public knowledge. Since Claire’s murder, police had patrolled the peninsula’s parks, its open spaces, with as much manpower as resources allowed. And womanpower. The leggy blonde and her companion whom Harry had first seen trying on Kiss-me-quick hats had both been policewomen. Even now Harry couldn’t quite believe that their skimpy beachwear had concealed panic buttons and a two-way radio.
“And on that note,” said the best man, putting his memory cards face-down on the table, “it only remains for me to give you a toast: the bride and groom!”
Everyone stood and raised their glasses solemnly. As they resumed their seats Harry’s neighbour whispered, “Brenda really does look delightful.”
Bland as background music the young man might be, but he wasn’t wrong. Today Brenda might have passed for ten years younger than forty-five. The blue chiffon two-piece suited her, as had the broad-brimmed hat she’d worn outside. As Colin Redpath stumbled through his speech, she gazed up at him, intent and loving. For an instant a memory surfaced in Harry’s mind, a memory of a caring, anxious face and a soft, white, yielding body underneath his. He banished the image angrily and told himself to be glad she had found Colin and a new way of life.
The Redpaths were not alone in making a fresh start. Harry had rung Alison Stirrup a couple of times. A self-imposed sense of responsibility had made him fear for her safety. But she and Cathy were back in their Knutsford shop within days of moving out. Alison said her husband had never contacted her. In their conversations she had been uncommunicative, keen to get off the phone. When Harry referred to Stirrup’s claim to have murdered his first wife, Alison was dismissive.
“You said it yourself, he made that story up to frighten me. I over-reacted. Surely you can understand why. The marriage breakdown. Coming out. It’s been a strain. I got everything out of proportion. I simply needed to escape. From him, from my mother. That’s all.”
“He told you he’d fixed the brakes on Margaret’s car.”
“For God’s sake don’t repeat that. I don’t want to be had up for slander.”
Jack Stirrup had had his fill of defamation law, reflected Harry grimly. And after cooling down he’d changed his mind about a showdown with Alison. He was no fool. He knew there was a limit to how many times you could get away with murder. Whilst she evidently intended to scrub the marriage from her mind as if it were no more than a dirty stain on her life.
According to a gossipy item in last night’s local paper about the sale of his business, Jack was planning to emigrate to Bermuda. “The last few weeks have been so traumatic, I’ve realised there’s more to life than making money. It’s time to put my feet up,” he was quoted as saying. A fuzzy photograph showed him overweight and cheerful, everyone’s favourite uncle. He had his arm round Rita Buxton, who was described as his fiancee and was looking at him as tenderly as if he were a pension policy.
“And now pray silence for the cutting of the cake.”
The toastmaster exuded bonhomie, flashbulbs popped, the newlyweds laughed with embarrassed pleasure as they wielded the knife together.
“A day to remember,” enthused Harry’s neighbour. “And a jolly nice meal, too.”
Harry agreed. No worries about strychnine in the soup or mercury in the meringues here in the squeaky clean meeting place of the evangelical group to which Brenda and Colin belonged. Anyway, the poisoning career of Peter Kuiper was at an end. Quentin Pike reckoned the kid was planning to write a book about his experiences. One way of passing his time inside.
The rituals over, the Redpaths’ guests began to disperse. Harry headed for the bar and over a glass of lager he recalled his conversation the previous evening with Trevor Morgan. They had bumped into each other at the Dock Brief, but the memory of the violent end to their last encounter seemed to have been wiped from the Welshman’s mind.
After a couple of pints Harry had asked Trevor what he knew about the death of Margaret Stirrup. Her name seemed to have a sobering effect.
“What makes you ask?”
“You were in your cups last time we met. You called Jack a bloody murderer. At the time I assumed if you meant anything, you thought he’d killed Alison. Later I changed my mind.”
Trevor Morgan brushed flecks of beer foam from his mouth.
“Maybe Jack said a bit too much late one night over a jar.” He contrived the mischievous lopsided grin which had charmed so many women — except for Catherine. “We all shout how smart we are when we’re pissed, it’s human nature.”
“But is it true that he murdered Margaret?” Harry persisted. “Cold-bloodedly, not in a fit of the famous temper?”
In a parody of bad acting, Trevor raised a finger to his lips.
“Mind your mouth, mate. Walls have ears, to say nothing of public bars. Best forget it.”
“Forget it?” Through the noise and the smoke and the smell of The Dock Brief, enlightenment dawned. “I see. Jack’s paid you off, so everything’s okay now.”
Trevor grinned. “Good lawyer, that bloke Fowler. The settlement cheque arrived yesterday.”
Hush money? Harry sighed. At least Trevor hadn’t tried blackmail. But after all he had been through, Jack Stirrup wasn’t going to risk a drunken ex-sidekick shooting his mouth off before the Bermuda flight was called.
Trevor smacked his lips. “Twelve months’ money, no tax. Not bad, eh? Have another. This one’s on me.”
For once Harry had found it no hardship to decline.
“Your belly won’t get any flatter if you keep drinking that stuff,” said a soft voice in his ear.
He twisted round, spilling some of his pint in the process.
“Brenda.” He considered her with care. “You look so gorgeous I’ll forgive you for trying to turn me against man’s best friend. His booze, I mean. And the best of it is, you’re happy.”
“Thank you.” She smiled. “Yes, it’s been a good day. And everyone’s been so kind. They are nice people here, Harry, our friends from the Fellowship.”
“I’m sure they are. I won’t pretend I’ve been converted. Seeing the error of your ways is one thing. Actually becoming a reformed character is quite another. But anything which has been so good for you must have something going for it.”
“Yes.” She leaned forward and straightened the flower in his buttonhole. “That’s better. Yes, I have something to believe in now. As well as someone. I can recommend it. But how about you? I’m sorry your girlfriend couldn’t come.”
“Me too.”
Her blue eyes regarded him. “Not a permanent rift, I hope?”
“‘Fraid so.”
“I’m sorry. She was a beautiful girl.”
“Easy come, easy go.”
“You’re a funny man, Harry. You always like to fear the worst. You ought to have faith, even if you think of yourself as an unbeliever. Things aren’t always as bleak as they seem.” She paused, scanning his face for any trace of comprehension. “Well, I hope you understand what I’m trying to say. I’m not much good with words, ‘specially after so much champagne.”