The Devil in Disguise (15 page)

‘No problem,' Roy said expansively. ‘I'm quite flush at the moment. Forget what I said originally about giving me a discount. I'm happy to pay top dollar. You deserve it after today. Hang on a moment while I settle up, then we'll walk to the flat.'

Whilst he was waiting, Harry mooched around the reception area. Glancing through the door into the Herman Melville Bar, he noticed Don Ragovoy talking to a young man who was polishing glasses, the one who had accompanied him to Luke's funeral. Then out of the corner of his eye he spotted a small swarthy man in a porter's uniform carrying a couple of heavy suitcases. The badge on the man's lapel said
Julio
. Moving as swiftly, for once, as in his footballing days, Harry intercepted the porter on his way to the goods lift.

‘Excuse me. I believe you spoke to a friend of mine, a Mr Whitaker, about the man who died here recently - Luke Dessaur.'

The man gave him a sullen look. ‘Listen, mister, I don't want any more trouble. I had the police round asking questions after your friend came here.'

‘There's not going to be any trouble. You gave my friend a lot of help. I simply wonder if you can remember anything else about the argument you overheard.'

The man shook his head vigorously. ‘Not a thing, mister. Not a thing.'

‘Was it a woman in Mr Dessaur's room or another man?'

‘Listen, I tell your friend, I dunno.'

‘What time was it?'

‘I dunno. Just before eleven, maybe.'

‘Not later?'

‘It was plenty late enough. I was dog tired.'

‘You weren't the porter who found the body, were you?'

‘No, that was my pal. He was on the eleven to seven shift that night. Now look, mister, these bags are heavy.'

Harry flourished a couple of notes from his wallet in the hope of refreshing the man's memory. But it was no use. In his haste to be off, Julio even forgot to tell Harry to have a nice day.

Roy returned. ‘You all right?'

Harry hesitated. He was trying to work out timings. The argument Julio had overheard had taken place before Luke tried to phone Ashley in Canada and about an hour and a half before his death. So what was its significance? ‘Yes - yes, of course. Shall we go?'

A couple of minutes later Roy steered him round the corner from Water Street into India Court and pointed at a building on the left-hand side. ‘There it is.'

He stared. Roy was indicating a boarded-up shop that had once sold discount office equipment. Crusoe and Devlin had once invested in a couple of their filing cabinets but within a fortnight the drawers had become stuck. Although the prospect of having his most intractable case files entombed forever had appealed to Harry, Jim had decreed that future purchases would be made from more reliable suppliers. Presumably other customers had taken similar decisions, resulting in the sad note on the bolted front door that any enquiries about the business should be addressed to its duly appointed receivers.

‘I don't see any sign...'

Roy smiled and, producing a hefty bundle of keys, unlocked the padlock on a gate at the side of the disused store. They went down an alley to a back door and Roy opened up.

The place was dark, with a faint musty smell. They were surrounded by wobbly typists' chairs, battered knee-hole

desks and other oddments of ergonomically incorrect office furniture.

‘There's no place like home,' he said.

‘So where is your studio?'

‘Follow me.'

Roy directed him through into the back and towards a narrow staircase. ‘I hope you're fit. There were lifts for goods and customers, but both of them have been condemned by the health and safety people. It's either this or the outside fire escape and that's a death trap after overnight rain.'

He led Harry up six flights. By the time they reached the top Harry was gasping for breath and Roy's features were creased with pain. ‘Out of condition?' he gasped. ‘The exercise will do you good. Imagine how it feels with a dodgy leg.'

Harry looked around. They were standing on a small landing. In front of him were three large and solid doors. A strange clicking and hissing emanated from behind the one in the middle. Roy nodded at each of them and said, ‘The lift motor room. The tank room - hence the background music. And my front door. Come in.'

Harry followed Roy inside and along a long narrow passageway, at the end of which was a door which opened into a small sitting-room-cum-studio. The floor was covered with hessian matting and there was a stale whiff of Indian cooking in the air. The walls were festooned with the originals of cartoons that Roy had drawn. There was, Harry thought suddenly, a cruel streak in Roy that came out in his work. He had the skill to capture character with a few sharp strokes of the pen and the most acute images were always the most savage. A prominent councillor with two faces, an inarticulate soccer star with his boot in his mouth. There was a sketch book on the table and Harry began to leaf through it. The picture on the first page startled him. It showed a rabbit looking disgusted to have pulled a goggle-eyed Tim Aldred out of a hat.

He turned over. There was the honourable Matthew Cullinan naked except for a nappy and sucking a silver spoon. Next page: Frances Silverwood cuddling a shrunken head in her arms as if it were a new-born babe.

‘Have you met Uncle Joe?' Roy asked. He'd come back into the room so quietly that Harry started and hurriedly put the book down on top of a little grey filing cabinet in the corner. ‘Yes, I can tell from your expression that you have. Naughty of me, I suppose. Most women in search of a child-substitute choose a pet. Frances is the only one I know who mollycoddles a shrunken head. Weird, or what?'

‘Sorry. Being nosey.'

‘I suppose I shouldn't mind my brief knowing my secret vices.' He gave a wolfish grin. ‘Though knowledge is power, isn't it? That's always been my motto. But I've got so many guilty secrets that if one or two of the little ones are found out, it doesn't matter much. There are plenty more in that cabinet. Only snag is, the bloody drawers are almost impossible to open.'

‘Tell me about it,' Harry said, glad to relieve his embarrassment by changing the subject. ‘The cowboy who used to work downstairs sold me a couple of them.'

Roy grinned. ‘Good old Donal. Consistent only in his total lack of reliability. I wonder what he's up to now?'

‘You knew him?' Donal was the young salesman who had seemed to be in charge here. A dark-haired fellow with the gift of the gab.

‘An old pal of mine - and the reason I'm here. He was managing the shop for some rogue from Belfast. This is supposed to be a caretaker's flat, but Donal thought up a cunning plan. He lived out at Aigburth, but he would install me here and save on expenditure. I could save money too and the place was ideal as a studio. Ever since my bloody ex took our house, I've rented rather than bought, but the dump I was living in was costing an arm and a leg at a time when I was desperate for cash. When the shop went kaput, Donal pissed off back to Ireland, owing money to half of Liverpool. I did a deal with the receivers. They like saving money too. Rather than try and evict me, they agreed that I could stay here for the time being, provided I kept an eye on security. So I'm still here.'

‘And doing well on it, judging by the cost of the lunch we've just had. You've come into money lately, then?'

Roy tapped the side of his nose. ‘Ask no questions and you'll hear no lies. Now, how about taking a look outside?'

He opened the double windows and they went on to the roof of the building. The wind was roaring in from the river, much fiercer up here than at street level. He turned round slowly, absorbing the scene. A low railing ran around the perimeter of the rooftop, enclosing an area that combined terracotta pots containing hardy green and yellow plants with boiler flues, lengths of hose and black rolled steel joists for window cleaners' cradles. On the street side, a flagpole reached up into the sky. Roy saw him looking at it and laughed.

‘I'm tempted to run up the skull and crossbones. One of these days, maybe.'

Harry could see the river through a gap in the buildings that edged the Strand. One of the rooftops must belong to the Hawthorne. Suppose Luke had discovered that Roy was embezzling from the Trust. Might he have booked in to the hotel because it was convenient to meet Roy there after the meeting at the Piquet Club? He walked over to the edge to look at the tiny figures on the ground. As he gazed down, he began to feel dizzy. He took a step back and wondered if it had been like this for Luke. What it would feel like, to look down upon the ground from the hotel window and know that within moments one's body would be lying on it? And there was still the old question: did he jump or was he pushed?

‘You look miles away,' Roy said softly.

He turned back to face his client. ‘Sorry, it's nothing. I just remembered I'm going to see
Vertigo
tomorrow night.'

Chapter 12

Matthew Cullinan and Inge Frontzeck shared a flat in a four-storey neo-Georgian block which looked out over the River Dee. The cars parked in the courtyard were Alfas and BMWs; blue, white and yellow winter pansies cascaded from vast hanging baskets beside the main door. A discreet sign next to the entry phone informed Harry that the occupants of the block did not welcome free newspapers or unsolicited callers and that they were active members of a neighbourhood watch security scheme.

The Jericho Lane Labour Club was only half an hour's drive away, but it belonged to a different world in which he was much more at home. He felt rather like a pub singer who has wandered by mistake on to the stage at Glyndebourne. As he rang the bell marked with the name of his hosts, he conquered with difficulty the urge to make a face at the closed circuit television cameras mounted on the courtyard walls.

Inge directed him to take the lift to the top floor and buzzed him in. When she opened their front door to him, he presented her with a bouquet of flowers.

‘You're so kind,' she said.

As she touched his cheek with her lips, he felt her breasts press against him for a moment and for the first time found himself seized by envy of the Honourable Matthew Cullinan. He had no regrets about the lack of blue blood in his veins and the world of financial consultancy held as much appeal for him as a spell in Strangeways. But the warmth of Inge's body as, without a thought, she gave her social greeting reminded him that he had been celibate for too long.

She led him into an L-shaped living-room stuffed with more antiques than the Lady Lever Art Gallery. Vivaldi was playing on a Scandinavian sound system that reminded him of something out of
Star Trek
. A Persian rug was stretched across the floor and he guessed it must have cost a fortune.

Not a place to be sick on the carpet
, he told himself.

On the mantelpiece were half a dozen framed photographs showing Inge at various stages of her life since childhood. She had been a shy little girl and a dumpy teenager. Only in the most recent picture was she smiling: it had been taken in front of a snow-laden ski lodge where she was gazing into Matthew's eyes.

Her boyfriend was standing next to a cocktail cabinet in the shape of a huge globe, checking the labels of a couple of bottles. Harry uttered a silent prayer that Matthew would not ask him which particular vintage he favoured. His host moved forward, hand outstretched. ‘Grand to see you. Can I offer you a glass of champagne?'

‘I ought to say no,' Harry said. ‘I was on the Moët at lunch-time.'

‘My God. It's a tough life being a Liverpool solicitor, eh?'

‘Special occasion. I was with Roy Milburn.'

‘Of course, I'd forgotten. Court case went well, did it? I rather gained the impression that if you kept him out of the nick, you'd be achieving a minor miracle.'

‘Some you win, some you lose. But I've learned a lesson from him and come over here in a cab. So - pour away.'

As Matthew opened a bottle of Bollinger, he said, ‘I don't want to talk shop, but I must be honest with you. Sometimes I worry about Roy.'

‘Why's that?'

‘Here, good health. Well, it's a question of reliability, I suppose. I do wonder whether Roy's the ideal man for the treasurer's job.'

A masterpiece of understatement, Harry thought. ‘He only took the job on as a favour because the trustees couldn't find anyone else and he'd once trained as an accountant.'

‘I gather he flunked his exams. Hardly reassuring. I'm not sure how close an eye he keeps on the Trust's finances. I don't pretend to have gone through them with a fine-tooth comb, but they seem in a pretty parlous state to me. Luke once said that when Roy was appointed, the Trust was not simply in the black but in a very healthy state indeed.' Matthew shook his head. ‘I'm not convinced that the management of our investments has been sound, so I have tried to make a number of changes for the better. Of course, I'm the new boy on the board, but I can't stand idly by while the whole shooting match falls apart.'

Harry sipped his champagne. He was beginning to understand why he had been invited, although he still could not quite reconcile the way Matthew talked with his reputation as a low-profile do-gooder. ‘Did you discuss your concerns with Luke?'

‘I may have mentioned them in passing.'

I bet
. ‘And what was his response?'

Matthew paused and Harry sensed that his host was measuring his words with care. One thing was clear: this meant more to him than a bit of casual, bitchy gossip. ‘He said very little. Just between you and me, I felt my remarks didn't come as a complete surprise. But now we will never know what was in his mind. Oh well, Roy is your client. I don't want to embroil you in a conflict of interests. I simply feel that I owe it to Luke to do what I can to protect the Trust's interests.'