Yesterday's Papers (19 page)

‘Yes, I do know. Her murder is the reason I wanted a word with you. It turns out that the man convicted of the crime was innocent after all.'

No actor could have feigned the shock on Doxey's patrician features. ‘What on earth are you talking about?'

Harry told him. From his first meeting with Ernest Miller to his conversation with Renata Grierson, he missed out none of the essentials, but he decided to say nothing for the time being about Benny Frederick's claim that Carole had fallen for Doxey. The great man listened intently, not interrupting; if he had been incredulous at first, he seemed gradually to absorb the enormity of what Harry was saying - that if Smith was innocent, Carole must have died at the hands of someone hitherto unsuspected. When the story was complete, he stroked his jaw thoughtfully before speaking.

‘An extraordinary tale, Mr Devlin. Assuming you are correct, of course.'

‘I believe Renata was telling me the truth. And I'm sure Miller was on the right track.'

‘You're not suggesting he was murdered for his pains, I gather. That really would be storybook stuff.'

‘No, I spoke again to someone I know in the police before I came out tonight. They're positive that Miller was not killed by anyone. It was an accidental death. All the same, I am intrigued by his Saturday visitor. Who can it have been?'

‘Well,' said Doxey with a heavy sigh, ‘I'm afraid I cannot help you there.'

‘That may be, Sir Clive, but you knew the Jeffries family as well as anyone. I would be grateful if you could tell me a little more about them.'

Doxey glanced at Kim and Harry sensed that, had she not been there, he would have made some excuse and left. But he had made a name for himself as someone prepared to delve into any case that carried the faintest whiff of unfairness. He could not escape just yet. So he took refuge in a display of candour.

‘You understand, Mr Devlin, this is painful for me. The killing of Carole Jeffries was not like any other case. I knew her well and Guy and Kathleen were old and dear friends.'

‘Tell me about them.'

Doxey made a show of casting his mind back in time before saying, ‘They first met at the University as students, as I recall. This was before I knew them, but I gather that both were thought to be destined for brilliant careers. Kathleen was as formidable a mathematician as Guy was a political philosopher. Things didn't work out quite as they planned and Kathleen fell pregnant with Carole.'

‘So there was a shotgun wedding?'

‘You imply that Guy was reluctant to marry, which I think was far from the case. He adored her in those days - as he adored his daughter from the moment she was born. But there were complications with the birth; I never knew the precise details, but Kathleen had gynaecological problems from that day on and having another child was never on the agenda. She suffered from ill health and her career took a back seat while she brought Carole up.'

‘Did she resent that?'

‘Like many mothers, I suppose she had mixed feelings.'

‘And her relationship with Guy when you knew them?'

‘Oh, as I said, he was devoted to her.'

‘Come on,' said Harry impatiently. ‘You were talking about the time they first married. Did they drift apart later? I gather he once had a reputation as a ladies' man.'

Doxey seemed on the point of objecting to Harry's bluntness, then changed his mind. ‘Yes, Guy was a good-looking fellow, of course, sociable and outgoing. He didn't see it as his role to stay at home lending moral support whilst his wife brought up their child. He was out most nights, giving lectures or attending political meetings, and when he stayed at home he would be closeted in his study, working on a book or an article.'

‘But that changed after Carole died, didn't it?'

‘Yes, he went to pieces. Nervous breakdown; drink; drugs too, I suspect. Certainly he died of an overdose. In the weeks and months after the murder, I called on them several times. I was as shell-shocked by what had happened as anyone.' He paused, as if debating exactly what to say next. ‘In a sense I thought Carole's death might have brought us all even closer together, but Kathleen was fiercely protective of Guy and, however selfishly, I began to feel excluded. As for Guy, he seemed for a time to have lost the will to live, but she helped him survive for another fifteen years. Long before then, he was lost to the Labour cause: even on election night in the October of that year, he stayed at home with Kathleen and refused every invitation to join the rest of us as we celebrated our victory.'

Doxey shook his head. ‘He started working again eventually and wrote the occasional article. But the spark had gone. It was as if almost overnight a young Turk had transformed into a weary elder statesman. I sat in on one or two of his public lectures during the late sixties and early seventies, but he'd become rambling, forgetful and bereft of ideas. Harold Wilson's people were dubbed Yesterday's Men, but the description fitted nobody better than Guy Jeffries himself. I last saw him during that dreadful winter of '78-'79, with rubbish piled high in the streets and the dead left unburied. So much for our socialist dream, I said to him. Both of us realised the Tories were likely to regain power and the prospect proved too much for poor Guy. His health was ruined, he had nothing left to live for. Suicide must have seemed the easy way out.'

‘And Kathleen? How did she cope during those difficult years?'

‘I don't think I'd claim I've ever really understood her. She's strong, but quiet, and I've never seen her face betray a single emotion in all the years I've known her. I'm sure she was shattered by Carole's death, but I've never heard her utter the girl's name from that day to this. I think it was her way of blocking the tragedy out of her mind. Yet I will say this, Mr Devlin. I have always admired her.'

Doxey exhaled and sat back in his chair. He had seemed tense throughout their conversation but now he was beginning to relax. He reminded Harry of a politician who has seen off the sharpest questions at a press conference and has started to wax lyrical about the contribution made to his success by a devoted wife and family. The time had come to discard the velvet gloves.

‘But not quite as much as you admired Carole?'

Doxey stared at him. ‘I'm not sure I follow your meaning.'

‘She was in love with you, wasn't she? I presume she didn't lack encouragement.'

‘That is an outrageous suggestion! She was only sixteen!'

Harry was aware of Kim giving his shins a warning kick under the table, but it was too late to change direction. ‘I'm sorry you see it like that, Sir Clive. I'm not accusing you of discreditable conduct. But I am told that, on the day of her death, Carole Jeffries had intended to propose to you.'

‘Enough!' Doxey rose clumsily to his feet. ‘I'm not prepared to listen to any more of this! Kim, I'm sorry, but I must wish you goodnight. It is late and I must return to my hotel.' He turned to Harry. ‘As for you, Mr Devlin, I applaud your intentions. I have no doubt you mean well. But in my view that does not entitle you to make offensive insinuations about my personal conduct.' And with that, he strode briskly away.

Harry gave Kim a rueful grin. ‘A picture of injured dignity, wouldn't you say?'

‘I hope you know what you're doing.'

‘My sources, as the journalists would say, are impeccable. Let me buy you another drink and I'll tell you all about it.'

He brought her up to date with the latest developments and was rewarded by the absorption with which she listened. When he had finished she asked what he made of it all.

‘I don't believe your friend Sir Clive. I think he was involved in some way with Carole Jeffries.'

She leaned closer to him. ‘And what do you deduce from that?'

The crowd in the bar was thinning out. He glanced at his watch and said awkwardly, ‘Look, we're going to be chucked out of here soon. My flat's two minutes away. Would you like to come round for a coffee and I'll explain the way my mind's working?'

She smiled and said, ‘You make it sound like an offer no woman could refuse.'

He felt himself blushing. He hadn't meant to proposition her; his head was already spinning as a result of what Doxey had said, for he thought he was close to understanding the reason for Carole's death.

A few seconds passed as Kim watched him with a wry look on her face. Then the pager in his pocket began to bleep. He fumbled for it and, with a stammered excuse, hurried to the payphone next to the exit door. When he returned a couple of minutes later, it was with an overwhelming sense of despair.

‘What's the matter?' she asked.

‘Patrick Vaulkhard had better tear up his script,' he said bitterly. ‘He won't be needing it again. The call was from Jeannie Walter, she wants me to go over and meet her right now. Kevin is in hospital with a police guard ringing the operating theatre. A couple of hours ago, he fell through a skylight while taking part in an armed robbery at a Customs warehouse.'

Chapter Twenty

divine retribution
.

Tears had streaked the mascara on Jeannie Walter's ravaged face and the damp marks glistened under the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital waiting room. She was pacing back and forth across the linoleum floor and chewing her fingernails with a desperate savagery. The police had called her away from a party and underneath the fur jacket she had bought on the day of the courtroom settlement she was wearing a tight black cocktail dress and little else. In this place of draughty echoing corridors her presence was as incongruous as that of a fan-dancer at a funeral.

‘He's got less brain than a fucking sparrow,' she said. ‘He had no need to do it, no need at all.'

She had been saying the same thing since Harry's arrival. He had forborne to suggest that Kevin could not help it, that crime was in his blood, that he could no more give up wrongdoing than a junkie could forsake his needle. A few minutes earlier he had spoken to the policemen who were waiting for news of Kevin's injuries. They were in confident mood: the operation to catch the warehouse thieves in the act had been a complete success. That one of those involved had sustained serious injuries while scurrying across a rooftop in a vain attempt to escape was scarcely cause for concern - especially once he had been identified as Kevin Walter, so recently the scourge of the South West Lancashire Major Enquiry Squad.

Apparently the police had received a tip-off: the job had been planned for months and presumably Kevin had not regarded the outcome of his court case as any reason for pulling out at a late stage. They even wondered if their informant had been jealous of Kevin's success in the legal lucky dip. It didn't matter - as well as him, they had six more of the city's toughest career criminals under lock and key.

A doctor approached them. His manner was grave and he spoke in a sympathetic murmur. ‘Mrs Walter? My name's Iqbal. I have just come down from the theatre. Can I speak to you in private for a moment?'

‘What's the matter? Where's Kev? What state is he in?' Jeannie was on the point of seizing him by the lapels of his white coat.

The doctor put a restraining hand on her arm. ‘Mrs Walter, this is a difficult time for you, I realise. Please, let us find a room where we can talk together.'

She turned to Harry. ‘For Christ's sake, why won't they tell me anything?'

Seldom had he felt so helpless. Gently, he said, ‘Talk to the doctor, Jeannie, he'll tell you as much as he knows.'

She bit her lower lip and said, ‘All right. But don't go, will you? Promise you'll be here when I get back.'

‘I promise,' he said, although at that moment he would rather have been anywhere else in the world.

Leaning on Iqbal's shoulder for support, she tottered down the corridor and out of sight. Harry sat down on a hard black plastic chair and took a last sip from his polystyrene cup of vending machine coffee. The silence was broken only by the occasional trudge of weary night staff and the squeaking trolley wheels that set his teeth on edge. He closed his eyes, not daring to imagine how badly hurt Kevin might be. Come what may, it would be a long time before his next robbery. The stupidity of so many of his clients kept Harry in work, but he cursed Kevin's greed, all the same. Why were people never satisfied, why did they always want more, why did the rich man take pleasure in dodging a little income tax?

‘Having a rough night?' asked a voice he recognised.

He glanced up and saw a tall blond-haired man whose hands were sunk deep in the pockets of his raincoat. ‘Hello, Pete, I didn't expect to see you here. And to answer your question, yes, I have had better evenings.'

Detective Sergeant Peter Olson gave him a grim but not unsympathetic smile. ‘I don't like to kick a man when he's down, but you may find things soon get worse.'

‘I doubt it. My client's seriously injured and likely to go down for years when he finally recovers. His wife's hysterical and I'm sitting here unable to do anything to offer her consolation. How can things get worse?'

‘You acted for Kevin Walter in his compensation claim, didn't you?'

‘Yes, and I don't suppose the people from the old Major Enquiries Squad will be heartbroken by tonight's events.'

‘Not just tonight's events, Harry,' said Olson softly.

‘What else?'

Olson sat down next to him. ‘I shouldn't be telling you this yet awhile, perhaps, but I don't see that forewarning you will change anything. Fact is, a woman has come forward. Her name is Gaynor and she used to be a prostitute on the Falkner Square beat. She's accused your client of raping her.'

‘Wonderful,' said Harry through gritted teeth. ‘When is he supposed to have done that? During his period of wrongful imprisonment?'

Olson smirked like a gameshow host about to reveal the night's star prize. ‘Five years ago, on the ninth of March to be precise.'

Harry stared at him. ‘Are you kidding? That was...'

A complacent nod. ‘The same date as the robbery of the jeweller in Southport, yes?'

‘It's impossible!'

‘All too possible, Harry, I can assure you. She tells us he picked her up that night, but didn't want to pay for what she had to offer. There was a struggle and he finished up beating the shit out of her as well as raping her against an alley wall.'

‘Come on now. This is the first anyone's heard of it.'

‘She never reported it at the time, of course. Prostitutes often don't, as you well know. They seem to regard an occasional battering as all part of the job and, rightly or wrongly, they don't expect to receive much sympathy from us. Besides, she saw in the newspaper that Kevin had been picked up for the Southport job. She knew he was innocent of that, but it seemed to her that he'd got his just deserts.'

‘And is there any evidence to support her story?'

‘Several people can vouch for it. We've done our homework, we have to in a case like this. Wouldn't want to be accused of harassing an innocent man, acting out of spite as a result of his court case, would we? We've spoken to other girls who were out that night, including one who can remember seeing Kev pick up her mate. They operate their own mutual security system, jotting down the numbers of punters' cars, just in case anything nasty might happen. And there's more.'

Harry groaned. ‘Break it to me gently.'

‘This afternoon we traced the cleric who found her lying a few yards away from the Cathedral and helped wipe the blood and tears away. He'd urged her to report the attack to us, but respected her right to keep silent. Short of serving a subpoena on God, I'd say he's as close to a perfect witness as I'll ever meet.'

Olson had an answer for everything. ‘So why has Gaynor suddenly decided to speak up?' Harry asked heavily.

‘Because of all the fuss on the telly about bloody Waltergate, of course. The sight of Jeannie portraying Kev as the innocent victim got right up Gaynor's nose. And I suppose she thought the media might be interested in her story too. She's a reformed character, you know. Married one of her punters who runs an estate agency - from one kind of exploitation to another, eh?'

‘Holy shit.' Harry shook his head in dismay. ‘No wonder Walter had trouble providing the South Lancs boys with an alibi for the crime he didn't commit.'

‘Funny the way things turn out, innit?' said Olson happily.

‘Hilarious.'

‘Don't look so glum. I'm sure you were well paid for the case you brought against the Squad. And you ought to be rubbing your hands at the prospect of all the extra business. Though even a lad with your imagination may find it hard to persuade the court that Kev took part in the robbery while the balance of his bank account was disturbed.'

‘I suppose I ought to say thanks for tipping me the wink,' said Harry, ‘but frankly, I preferred blissful ignorance.'

‘Ah well,' said Peter Olson, ‘you can't win 'em all. Be seeing you.'

Even before the detective's revelations had sunk in, Harry heard the click-click-click of Jeannie's heels coming back down the corridor. He had thought himself proof against any further shocks that night, but the expression on her face caused his stomach to lurch. Never had he seen such naked despair.

He stood up and as he took her hand, another single tear rolled down the ruin of her cheek. ‘Have the police spoken to you?' he asked.

‘Police, police?' she answered vaguely. ‘No, I've been with the doctor. He's been explaining the situation to me.'

He felt a sick certainty that he knew what was coming. Yet he had to ask. ‘And - what is the situation?'

‘Kevin's broken both his neck and his spine. He'll be lucky to survive the night, but if he does, one thing's for sure. He'll never walk again. He'll be a bloody cripple for the rest of his days. My Kev - confined to a fucking wheelchair!'

Harry tightened his grip on her hand but said nothing. There was nothing to say.

The blotches on her skin darkened and when she spoke again her tone was as hard as an asphalt road. ‘That bloody warehouse, it was criminal what they'd done! The window frames around that skylight were rotten through and through. No wonder Kevin fell. I tell you one thing - we're going to sue them for every penny they've got!'

As dawn approached, he unlocked the door to his flat. His limbs were aching and he felt exhausted, but knew he would never be able to sleep after such a night. Stumbling into the shower, he let the jet of hot water burn his skin and wash fatigue away. He had left Jeannie Walter talking to Iqbal about her husband's condition: the only sure thing was that it would be some time before he was fit enough to be questioned by the police. Harry had said nothing to Jeannie about Gaynor's allegations: she had enough on her plate. Phrases from Vaulkhard's talk about the unending quest for justice kept surfacing in his brain and he wondered grimly whether the tabloid which had serialised the Waltergate story had put a clause in the deal to claim its money back if the truth about Kevin proved to be worse than the fiction dreamed up by the crooked cops of the Major Enquiry Squad.

Forget it
, he thought as he towelled himself dry,
what about Carole Jeffries? Who should have taken Edwin Smith's place in the condemned cell?
During the long chilly hours in the hospital, ideas about the Sefton Park Strangling had jostled around in his head like schoolkids in a bus queue. He simply did not believe Clive Doxey's denial of involvement with the girl. Yet what could he prove? And would even the existence of a relationship establish a credible motive for murder? So many things still bothered him: the lurking suspicion that Ray Brill had told him something significant was one thing, the old pieces of paper Ken Cafferty had shown him another. He believed he was coming within a touch of the truth, yet still the curtain of time divided him from the murder and made it impossible for him to see precisely what had happened thirty years ago.

By half past five he was at his desk in Fenwick Court, battling through the backlog of paperwork that had accumulated over the past few days. It was a bitterly cold morning, but free from interruptions of clients and staff, he tried to concentrate on the mundane trivia of court correspondence and instructions to counsel. Yet hard though he tried, he could not drag his thoughts away from Carole's death.

On the stroke of seven he rang Ken Cafferty's paper in the hope that the reporter was on the early shift. ‘You're in luck,' the girl at the other end said. ‘Who shall I say is calling?'

‘Are you a mind-reader?' demanded Ken when he came on the line. ‘How did you know I wanted to speak to you? Is this rumour about Kevin Walter being under arrest true?'

‘So you've heard?'

‘I take your answer to mean that it's gospel truth. Fine, you don't need to say another word.'

‘Listen, I wasn't calling about Waltergate. It's the murder of Carole Jeffries that is really bugging me. Can you spare me a few minutes? We could have breakfast together at The Condemned Man. Would you meet me there in half an hour?'

‘I can make it sooner if you're so keen.'

‘I was allowing you time to dig out the old cuttings on the Sefton Park case again. I'd like to take another look at them.'

‘You never give up, do you? Okay, let me just have a word with the newsdesk and I'll see you at Muriel's.'

‘What's so interesting about the blacks?' asked Ken in between mouthfuls of Cumberland sausage.

Harry was bemused. ‘The blacks?'

Ken gestured to the flimsy sheet of yellowing typescript in Harry's left hand. ‘That's what we used to call it. After carbon black, you know. Until the new technology came in, all the files would contain their share of blacks. Of course, they contained a lot of stuff that never saw the light of day.'

‘Yes, I can see discrepancies between this and the cutting that is evidently based on the same report.' Harry traced a finger along one line from the black, where Guy Jeffries was quoted as saying
I could never have let her go
. ‘But I don't understand the reason for them.'

‘What you have there is the story the journalist wrote. The sub-editor would have marked the top copy, cut it down to size and crossed out all the split infinitives as well as striking a line through everything libellous. And that bowdlerised version is the one Joe Public would read.' He took the paper from Harry and glanced at it. ‘This is the first report for the Monday edition after the story broke. Compare it to the clipping that actually appeared. See how the sub has toned down the quotes. In the original you can almost hear that poor bastard Guy Jeffries sobbing in despair; in the final story, he is simply described as distraught and uttering a few platitudes about what a wonderful girl his daughter was.'

Harry took back the sheet. ‘I see he never actually uttered precisely those sentiments.'