Yesterday's Papers (24 page)

‘He rang me at home out of the blue, said he thought a chat might be to our mutual advantage. From the moment I heard his voice, I knew he meant trouble. He'd met Ray and pestered him about Carole Jeffries. Ray was pissed and must have said something to suggest he knew someone who had got away with murder. Miller wormed enough information out of him to track me down. There aren't many McCalliogs in the Merseyside phone book. I already knew from you that someone was sniffing round the Sefton Park case.'

‘You arranged to call on him?'

‘Yes. I rang Ray first to find out what he'd been saying. He was relatively sober and he admitted he'd been indiscreet. His attitude was devil-may-care, as if after all this time nobody would care what had happened to a man like Warren Hull. I felt I must meet Miller, find out what he wanted. I expected a straightforward blackmailer, but Miller was something else, one of the strangest men I ever met. You know, I don't think he was interested in money. What intrigued him was simply the idea of committing a murder and then escaping detection. He seemed to gloat over his knowledge about what I had done, and he was more anxious to discover the details of the crime than to make anything from it.'

‘How did he die?'

Jock spoke rapidly, as if despite everything he was still anxious to exonerate himself from blame. ‘It was so stupid. My nerves were at breaking point. I'd kept my secret for so long and now this old fool had discovered it. I asked him bluntly what he wanted. He laughed and said he would settle for the pleasure of keeping me guessing about what he proposed to do. In a fury, I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and before I knew what was happening, he was having a fit, couldn't breathe.'

‘He suffered badly from asthma.'

‘He broke free but was fighting for air. All at once he lost his balance and hit his head on the side of the fireplace. It was so stupid, I couldn't believe it. For the second time in thirty years I was in another man's home, watching him die.'

‘And you did nothing to help?' asked Harry coldly.

Jock spread his arms. ‘What could I do? I was in a state of shock and in any event it was soon all over. Tell you the truth, after a couple of minutes I said a little prayer of thanks. Everything seemed to have worked out perfectly.'

‘Except for Miller.'

‘He was no good, Harry. Like Warren Hull and Ray, he was no loss to the world.'

‘I take it you were the one who burgled my office?'

‘Stupid, of course, but I panicked. The problem I had was that I just didn't know what was in Cyril Tweats' file. I'd never dreamed it would contain anything damaging to me - why else do you think I let you have it that time? But it began to prey on my mind. I started wondering whether it might contain information I would prefer you not to know. Above all, I didn't know what Ray had said during the police enquiry. He hadn't fingered me for Warren's murder, but he still might have revealed more than I'd have liked. It was important to me that you shouldn't realise that Ian Brill and I were one and the same. As you know, Jim stores spare copies of internal documents down here - including details of your burglar alarm system and how to disable it. When I couldn't find the file in your room that night, I feared the worst. Then lo and behold, you handed it back to me for safekeeping! I needn't have worried after all.'

‘And Ray? Another unlucky break?'

‘No need to take that tone, Harry. It was obvious I had a problem with Ray. I couldn't be sure what he would say or do - especially if you turned up and started to sweet-talk him. I went to see him in Southport. He'd been drinking, as per usual. He was hostile, in fact he was downright offensive. Kept saying he owed me nothing. I pleaded, I cajoled, but he started to tease me by speculating aloud how much the tabloid press would pay for his story, doubting whether I could outbid them. I couldn't take it any longer. I hit him hard a couple of times; the second blow knocked him unconscious. You wouldn't think it to look at me today, but I boxed at school, won a schoolboy title. Ray may have been bigger than me, but I've downed better men than him.'

‘And then you set fire to the flat and tried to make it look as though the blaze had started by accident. Not easy to fool trained investigators, Jock. What were you thinking of?'

‘All I knew was that I had to do my best to cover my tracks. Ideally, the police would regard it as an accident. Failing that, I thought the fire would destroy any evidence of my presence in the flat.'

Harry sighed. ‘Three deaths in the victims' homes. Your
modus operandi
never varied.'

Jock climbed to his feet and stood, hands on hips, looking round the Land of the Dead. The deedboxes, the old files, the detritus from cases long forgotten. ‘You're accusing me of a lack of originality? Somehow I feel that's the least of my problems.'

Harry looked him in the eye. ‘I'm sorry I've become the greatest of them.'

‘Me too,' said Jock. ‘I liked you, Harry, I really did.'

A subtle change in his tone alerted Harry and he dodged to one side as the balled-up fist flew towards him. It caught him only a glancing blow, but it was enough to make him stagger. Before he could defend himself, Jock followed up with punches to the stomach and kidneys, sickening blows. He felt himself gagging and, although he flailed with his arms in a vain attempt to save himself, he could not help crumpling to the ground.

As his head hit the concrete floor, the pain made him shout aloud. For a few seconds he was too dazed to be capable of coherent thought. When he managed to raise his head a fraction and blink away the tears, he saw Jock had grasped the handle of the heavy-duty truck he kept parked at the corner of the room. He was lifting on to it an old six-foot filing cabinet.

‘Jock, don't be stupid!'

The little clerk steadied his load. He was panting with the effort - and his tension. ‘I told you before - my survival instinct is well developed.'

The truck needed oiling. Its wheels screeched as Jock began to manoeuvre it towards where Harry lay. Harry tried to haul himself to his feet. Every bone in his body seemed to be hurting and all his strength had drained away. He scrabbled with his fingers in the dirt, but he could hardly lift his chin off the ground, let alone struggle to his feet. He could see Jock looking at him, concentrating intently on the task in hand. The filing cabinet was wobbling on the lip of the truck. It must be packed with suspensions full of thick old files ready to archive. Better not to think what would happen when Jock dropped it on him.

‘I'm sorry about this, Harry, I really am,' gasped Jock.

‘Let's talk about it,' said Harry, barely able to make himself heard. ‘Surely...'

‘No, the time for talking has gone.'

The truck came nearer. Harry could see its vast load looming over him, ready to topple him into darkness.

‘Jock!'

The little man spun round. He took one hand off the handle of the trolley and the filing cabinet crashed down on to the ground, the sharp edge of its bottom end only inches from Harry's nose. Dust blew into Harry's face and he shut his eyes for a second, still half-expecting permanent oblivion. But he had recognised the voice and never had he been so glad to hear it.

Kim Lawrence was standing in the entrance to Jock's domain. By her side was Adrian the saxophone enthusiast. Amazement was scrawled over their faces at the sight which greeted them.

With a roar of fury, like some wild animal, Jock ran past them and out of the door, into the maze of passages that made up the Land of the Dead. After a moment's pause, Adrian thundered after him.

Harry found himself looking into Kim's eyes. There were so many things he suddenly wanted to say, but his head and body were aching and words were beyond him.

But not beyond Kim. She strode towards him and stood with folded arms above his prostrate form.

‘So,' she said, ‘another fine mess you've got yourself into.'

Chapter Twenty-Six

since for the rest of my days, I am condemned to stay in this house
,

‘I miss him, you know,' said Gloria Hegg.

It was Sunday afternoon, a week after Harry's last visit to the little house in Everton and once again he was sitting in her armchair, drinking her tea and offering her sympathy.

He was not quite sure why he had come back here. Miller's death had not increased his liking for the man and, as the will had never been signed, he had no obligations as executor. Besides, if Miller had not poked his nose into other people's affairs, Ray Brill would still be alive and Jock would still be presiding over the Land of the Dead, his murderous youth no more than a distant memory.

Yet Edwin Smith's name would not have been cleared and the truth about a terrible crime would have remained hidden, as so often it does. Harry felt he owed Miller something at least. Besides, the man still baffled him. He felt he had never been able to understand what made him tick. Why was he so fascinated by cases like the Sefton Park Strangling and the murder of Warren Hull, cases which had never been regarded as classic mysteries? What was the appeal to him of the unsolved crime?

Perhaps by looking through his papers, it might be possible to glean some clues as to what had made Ernest Miller tick. Harry was uncomfortably aware that in the Land of the Dead, his curiosity had nearly cost him dear. This would prove a safer investigation.

He had called Kim to check that he was right in believing that Jock's surname was McCalliog. Although he had not explained his reason for asking, she had been sufficiently intrigued to tell Adrian that they should now start ferrying over to archive a load of files that had cluttered up her office for far too long. In the past few days Harry had sent up many a silent prayer of thanks for that. Adrian had brought Jock down with a rugby tackle in the passage leading to the outside world, and held him while Kim phoned 999 on her mobile to fetch the police.

Once under arrest, the little archivist had spoken as freely to his interrogators as he had to Harry. But it would be a long time before Kevin Walter, now stricken by paraplegia, would be fit to plead. MOJO were no longer planning to use Kevin's experiences with the South West Lancs Major Enquiry Squad as a case study for their workshops. Harry had also made it clear to Kim that he did not want any public discussion about the Guy Jeffries case, at least while Kathleen was still alive.

‘I know she should not have kept quiet,' he said, ‘but what purpose would it serve during the last years of her life to turn her into a public outcast? In a way, she was Guy's victim too.'

At first Kim had disagreed. ‘But what about Edwin Smith? His name was dragged through the mud; surely he deserves to have his innocence made known?'

‘Who would benefit? He's dead, so is the one person who always stood by him. Let it rest, while Kathleen is around. She's suffered punishment enough.'

He would never have the chance to tell Vincent Deysbrook what he had learned. The previous morning, he had rung Jasmine House to see how the old detective was feeling. In their brief acquaintance, he had come to have a grudging respect for the man: the mistakes he had made had at least been honest.

‘I'm sorry,' said the deputy matron who took his call, ‘Vincent passed away yesterday. It was quite peaceful at the end.'

A merciful release, Harry supposed as he put the receiver down. He had come to the view that when life has absolutely nothing more to offer, it ceases to be worth striving for mere survival.

He had not managed to resist the urge to tell Cyril Tweats of Edwin Smith's innocence. On calling round at the Aigburth villa, he had again been made welcome with tea and biscuits. Having heard Harry out, Cyril had simply smiled his amiable smile and said, ‘Well, well, well. Who would have thought it?' Water off a duck's back. Harry had made his excuses and left. He decided he would not be calling there again.

The doorbell rang and Gloria sprang to her feet. ‘This will be your friend, I expect.'

Harry followed her to the door and introduced her to Kim. He had thought about inviting Jim Crusoe to have a look with him at Miller's effects, but he could readily imagine the big man's baffled shake of the head. Jim had seemed distracted lately, although Harry could not guess why. Thank God, at least, that he had not pursued the idea of the promotional video filmed by Benny Frederick. When he had suggested to Kim that she might care to accompany him over the weekend, however, she had been quick to say yes.

‘Truth is,' she said, ‘I'm almost as inquisitive as you. Bear in mind I've never even met Miller and yet he seems to have been such an extraordinary man, fascinated by miscarriage cases. It will be marvellous if MOJO can claim on his estate, after all.'

This had been Jim's idea. He had remembered the small print of the old doctrine of escheat. Since Miller had clearly intended the charity to benefit, the law might permit his wishes to be given effect.

‘I find it hard to think of him as a philanthropist, somehow.'

‘Face it, you don't have the foggiest what his motives were.'

‘For me, that's part of the interest. I'd love to get an insight into his mind, to discover what made him the man he was.'

‘And you seriously think you'll find that out simply by going through what he left behind?'

‘Unlikely,' Harry admitted, ‘but you will come anyway, won't you?'

‘Of course.'

Now here she was, looking good in Aran sweater and jeans. Accompanied by Gloria Hegg, they opened up next door and Harry made at once for the study on the first floor which still overflowed with Miller's books and papers. There was an immense amount of junk: old bills, receipts and scribble about household trivia as well as sheet after sheet of foolscap on which Miller had jotted small bits of information about the strangling in Sefton Park. He might not have deduced that Guy was the killer, Harry thought, but had his attention not been distracted by Ray Brill's revelations, he would surely have done so in time.

Presently, he turned again to the filing cabinet he had looked through on his previous visit. As he glanced again at the folder titles noted on the suspension tabs, a thought occurred to him. Miller had set out in his will instructions a list of all his assets. Yet other than saving certificates, there was nothing that one would normally describe as a long-term investment. He slipped out the folder that bore that description and found that it contained a thin lined notebook. A glance at half a dozen lines of the opening page made him catch his breath. He read them again to make sure he was imagining nothing. But there was no doubt that they were Miller's words, written in his characteristically over-ornate script and style. Harry could almost hear them being uttered in that odd, pedantic manner Miller had. And he realised that the long-term investment Miller had made in his own life had been one that explained his preoccupation with unsolved crime.

‘Kim!'

She had been downstairs, chatting to Gloria about Miller, but came running up in response to his cry.

‘What is it?'

Harry handed her the notebook. ‘Look at this.'

She turned to page one and stared at the title. ‘
Confession To Murder
. Good grief, did Miller write this?'

‘No question.'

She glanced down the first few paragraphs and whistled. ‘I don't believe it!'

‘I think you should,' said Harry quietly. ‘It's quite short. Would you like to read it aloud to me?'

She cleared her throat and gave him a wry smile. ‘Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.'