The Devil in Disguise (2 page)

She smiled ruefully and Harry found himself having to fight the urge to give her hand a comforting squeeze.

She wasn't his type, but he had a lot of time for Frances Silverwood.

‘I'm sure Luke will be fine,' he said. But he wasn't sure that he really believed it.

She stood up. ‘Thank you for hearing me out, Harry. I expect this will probably all blow over and I'll have made a complete fool of myself in Matthew Cullinan's eyes. Worrying over nothing.'

Harry stood up and took a last glance at the shrunken head. It stared back, as if to say:
You know it's right to fear the worst
.

Chapter 2

A gale was blowing the litter down Dale Street as Harry headed back towards his office. Empty burger cartons, chip papers and hot-dog wrappers were strewn along the pavement. He'd read that nutritionists believed there was a link between junk food and delinquency. If they were right, Liverpool was in for a crime wave.

He turned up his coat collar. Whoever said that April is the cruellest month had never spent January in Merseyside. It was one of the harshest winters he could remember and the forecasters promised worse to come. As his partner Jim Crusoe pointed out, it was perfect weather for probate lawyers. A cold snap that carried off a few elderly clients was always good for a solicitor's cashflow. Harry's sympathy was with the old people. After the warmth of the museum, the bitterness of the wind was hard to bear.

Yet the chill in his bones owed less to the weather than to his recollection of his last meeting with Luke Dessaur and the conversation which he had decided against mentioning to Frances Silverwood. A week earlier, Luke had called at Crusoe and Devlin's office in Fenwick Court. He had brought a letter from Geoffrey Willatt, the lawyer acting for Vera Blackhurst. Harry had been surprised to see him; the letter could have been sent by post or fax and a busy man would usually prefer a quick word over the telephone.

Luke was worried, that was obvious. In his early fifties, he was still a handsome man, tall and erect in his three-

piece pinstripe with exquisitely coiffured grey hair. He

had, Harry always thought, the confidence and charm of a leading counsel as well as the same small vanities: the fob-watch, the gleaming gold crowns, the natural assumption that every considered view he expressed was right. Frances was not, Harry felt sure, the only woman Luke left weak at the knees. Yet for once he looked his age. His brow was furrowed and he kept breaking off his sentences to rub tired eyes.

‘Well,' he said, ‘if you are absolutely sure...'

‘Don't worry,' Harry said, not for the first time. ‘Vera Blackhurst can't take the money and run. Even though she's flourishing a will made in her favour and appointing her as executor of Charles Kavanaugh's estate, remember we've lodged a caveat with the court. So she isn't allowed to obtain probate and make off with all his money until the dispute has been resolved.'

Luke sighed. ‘In that case, I suppose we can do nothing more until the trustees meet.'

‘Right. Everything's under control.'

It was a bold claim for any lawyer, let alone Harry, to make but it prompted Luke to nod his thanks before climbing to his feet and picking up his coat. At the door he paused.

‘There is one other thing that I suppose I ought to mention.'

Harry had years of experience in dealing with people who had difficulty in coming to the point, but he would never have expected Luke to be one of them. ‘What's the matter?'

‘It's rather embarrassing. You see, I'm concerned by the behaviour of one of the trustees. It seems to me that the person in question may - may have been deceiving me.'

‘Can you tell me more?'

‘I'd rather not at this stage, if you don't mind. I need to think things through, perhaps speak to the individual concerned before I take matters any further. But to be frank, I've been having a few sleepless nights. And - I'm not making excuses - I may have been slightly indiscreet.'

‘I doubt it,' Harry said. It wasn't flattery. He knew few people less likely to talk out of turn than Luke.

‘Kind of you to say so, but I did mention that I was concerned about the Trust to - to someone the other day. Of course, I didn't mention any names and he said at once that I ought to seek legal advice.'

Harry thought for a moment. ‘Was it Ashley Whitaker, by any chance?'

A rare smile flitted across Luke Dessaur's face. ‘It's true what people say, Harry. You have missed your vocation as a detective. How did you guess?'

‘The explanation's always a let-down,' Harry said. ‘It's simply that I know you would only discuss something like this with someone you could trust.'

‘You're right, as it happens. I value his judgment - and of course he was right. So I may need to consult you soon, for advice on the removal of one of the trustees.'

‘Ah.'

‘It is a very delicate matter.' Luke hunched his shoulders. ‘Most distressing. Perhaps either you or your partner would care to refresh your minds about the precise terms of the trust deed. Unless I am very much mistaken, we will have to speak about this again.'

‘Call me any time.'

But Luke had not been in touch again after that strange, unsatisfactory conversation - and now, if Frances was to be believed, his concern had turned into fear.

As soon as he was back in his own room, Harry hunted around for the lever arch files which contained the bulk of the Kavanaugh Trust papers. One came to light under his desk; another was propping up the unsteady table on which stood his new (or more precisely, reconditioned) computer. The revolution in information technology had touched even Crusoe and Devlin, but where Harry was concerned, there would always be scope for the lowest of low tech. The screen was blank: he reminded himself to switch the machine on before Jim Crusoe looked round the door and upbraided him for Luddism.

He opened the current file and a couple of dozen sheets spilled through his hands and on to the floor. As he scrambled around picking them up, he reflected that for all the computer salesman's honeyed words, the paperless office was as much a pipe-dream as the paperless toilet. When the documentation was back in its proper order, he began to sift through it in preparation for the evening. At least if the chairman did not turn up, the other trustees were less likely to put penetrating questions or to realise that he was practically innumerate. He gazed at the mass of dividend payment request forms and wondered why charity had to go hand in hand with bureaucracy. Surely that was not what Gervase Kavanaugh had intended?

A large figure loomed in the doorway. Jim Crusoe lifted his thick eyebrows in mock astonishment. ‘Harry Devlin studying a file? What next?'

‘The Kavanaugh Trust papers. I thought I'd better brush up for this evening. Why did I let you talk me into becoming involved?'

‘We agreed, remember?' Jim eased himself down in the client's chair and Harry fancied that he heard it creak under the strain. His partner had put on weight recently: the result of too much home cooking as he tried to make up to his wife for a relationship with another woman of which Heather Crusoe was so far unaware. ‘I would handle the money side. You'd deal with the litigation.'

It was true. When Crusoe and Devlin had acquired the business of Tweats and Company, they had taken over the files of a handful of estimable clients, including the Kavanaugh Trust. A surprising number of otherwise sensible people had never rumbled the fact that Cyril Tweats, for all that he modelled his bedside manner on Dr Finlay, knew rather less about the law than the average reader of John Grisham. Harry had been content to let Jim handle the work and his partner's offer had seemed like a good deal at the time. When did a local charity ever become embroiled in courtroom battles?

Certainly, there was no reason to expect the Trust to engage in disputes. It had been founded by an elderly composer whose music had enjoyed a brief vogue in the thirties. Shortly before his death, Gervase Kavanaugh had set up a charitable trust with a view to distributing largesse to worthy causes in the arts in Liverpool. His son Charles, a lifelong bachelor, had regarded himself as a discerning connoisseur of art, although in truth he had as much aesthetic sensibility as a bullfrog (a creature to which he had borne a disconcerting physical resemblance). He had made a will years back leaving his estate to the Trust. A fortnight ago he had died in a nursing home following a short illness. After expressing their sorrow and paying tribute to his support, the trustees had turned their minds to the pleasant dilemma of how to spend all the money. The injection of new funds would be welcome since little was left of the original endowment. Charles's demise could not have been more timely. And then they had learned he had left his fortune to his housekeeper-companion, Vera Blackhurst.

‘We can't fight her claim all the way to court. Our case isn't strong enough and the trustees can't afford the risk. Though I think we ought to check Vera out.'

Jim's eyes narrowed. ‘Listen, I don't want you doing your Sexton Blake bit on behalf of the Trust. They aren't the kind of clients to mess around with. If there's any inquiry work to be done, we play it by the book, okay? Get them to instruct Jonah Deegan.'

‘All right, all right. But there's something else you should know.'

He reported his conversation with Frances Silverwood and Jim shook his head. ‘Luke afraid? I don't believe a word of it.'

‘He came to see me the other day. I was waiting for him to come back to me before I mentioned it to you. He reckoned one of the trustees was deceiving him.'

‘Good God. Who was he pointing the finger at?'

‘He wouldn't say. But he was obviously troubled. Talked about losing sleep. He'd even mentioned it to Ashley Whitaker, who quite rightly told him to have a word with us.'

‘But why should he be afraid? It's not like Luke to go over the top.'

‘It's not like Frances to exaggerate, either,' Harry said grimly. ‘Maybe I'll learn more at tonight's meeting. Matthew Cullinan's hired a room at the Piquet Club.'

‘My God, you are moving in exalted circles. Don't they say that's the oldest gentlemen's club in England?'

‘From what I've heard, that's because it caters for the oldest gentlemen. Matthew's probably the youngest member they've ever had. He's just been elected, apparently.'

Jim whistled. ‘So soon? I heard there was a five-year waiting list.'

‘Not if you're an offspring of Lord Gralam. He's even arranged for an outside caterer to come in to make sure that we are fed and watered.'

‘All the trustees' meetings I've attended,' Jim grumbled, ‘I've never done better than soup and sandwiches.'

Harry patted his partner on the shoulder. ‘Sorry, mate. I've learned this much from rubbing shoulders with the nobility. It's not what you do that matters. It's who you know.'

The streets had been dark for a couple of hours by the time Harry found himself outside the entrance to the Piquet Club. A uniformed commissionaire who bore a marked resemblance to Sir John Gielgud opened the door eighteen inches and examined Harry's Marks and Spencer suit and Hush Puppies with disdain.

‘May I help you?' The plummy tones made Sir John sound like a bingo caller.

Harry conquered the temptation to tug a forelock and said tentatively, ‘Kavanaugh Trust?'

‘Ah yes' - the commissionaire paused - ‘sir. Take the stairs and it's on your left on the second landing.'

As he climbed the wide curving staircase, Harry studied the sepia-tinted pictures of eminent past members. Bewhiskered men with stern faces, proud Liverpudlians who had lived in an age when the city was great. The club was legendary for its wealth, derived from endowments established by merchants who had taken time off from slave trading to play cards with each other. He paused on the first landing, opposite a door marked
Strictly Private
and guarded by a security camera and alarm. Presumably that was where they kept their etchings: the Piquet Club's other claim to fame was that it boasted one of the finest collections of erotica in private hands. The stuff was supposed to make the Kama Sutra look as racy as
Teach Yourself Origami
.

On the second landing, he glanced through an open door to his right. A couple of white-haired men with hearing aids were playing piquet at a small table. The room had a domed ceiling which emphasised the atmosphere of religious solemnity. It was hard to imagine that they were in the heart of the city of football and pop music, of stand-up comics and stevedores.

Harry was seized by the sudden urge to shout, ‘All right, lads! Let's have a look at the filthy pictures, shall we?' But he thought better of it. Even if the old fellers could be persuaded to unveil their stock of superannuated porn, their hearts would probably split under the strain once they took a look at it.

Suddenly he heard a woman's giggle from behind the opposite door. It was a sound as unlikely as rap music in

a monastery. From the doorknob hung a placard saying:
Kavanaugh Trust - Private Meeting
. Harry knocked and, without waiting for a reply, pushed open the door and walked inside.

Matthew Cullinan was facing him. He had his arms round the waist of a woman in a gingham overall and he was squeezing her ample buttocks.

Harry groaned inwardly. Why did he always rush in where others feared to tread? If only he had stayed outside and waited for a summons he might have been spared the spectacle of a scion of the aristocracy sexually harassing a serving wench. And wasn't Matthew reputed to be something of a shrinking violet, anxious to avoid any hint of publicity or breath of scandal? Perhaps he thought that goosing a caterer didn't count, that waving his cheque book around gave him some from of
droit de seigneur
.