I Remember You (18 page)

He returned her gaze. Her resemblance to Liz was stronger than ever; Debbie too was a modern Micawber, forever optimistic that something would turn up. He would find it easy to say yes to her. Yet he knew he had to learn to stop believing in ghosts.

‘I don't think that would be such a good idea.'

‘In that case,' she said ruefully, ‘I suppose we'd better say goodbye. I have plenty to do before the Graham-Browns get home.'

‘At least it still
is
their home,' he said.

She laughed and led him to the front door. ‘Yes. They'll never know what a narrow escape they had. Thanks for everything, Harry. Who knows, we may bump into each other again one day.'

He hesitated as he stepped past her into the cold air of the afternoon. As his cheek brushed her hair he was seized by a fierce urge to put his arms round her, but he conquered it in a split second and did not look back until he was half a dozen paces down the path. She was framed in the doorway, an attractive, naive young woman. Not a ghost at all.

‘Take care of yourself,' he said. ‘I'll remember you.'

Chapter Twenty-Three

He arrived back at the office on the stroke of five. Despite his lack of sleep, he felt as though he had gained new strength. So much remained unclear to him, but on the drive home from Crow's Nest House, he had made a promise to himself. Before the day was through, he would come face to face with Finbar's killer.

Suzanne was preparing to leave for the day, gathering her bits and pieces together, checking her make-up in a pink pocket mirror. She glanced ostentatiously at her watch as he strode past her and clicked her tongue in reproof.

‘You never gave me any idea when you'd be back,' she said. ‘I didn't know what to tell your client.'

He swung round and saw Melissa sitting in the corner. She was warmly wrapped in suede coat and cashmere scarf, but he could sense she was trembling.

‘Sorry, I didn't realise ... Have you been here long?'

‘Only a few minutes,' she said. ‘Don't worry, it's my fault. I didn't make an appointment. I wanted to talk to you face to face, so I simply turned up on the off-chance you'd be around.'

‘Come through,' he said and led her to his room. ‘And how are you?'

A shadow crossed her face. ‘I saw the police again this morning. They took a statement which confirmed everything I told them last night - about Finbar's coming to see me, our row, the time he left, that sort of thing.'

‘You could have called me. I'd have sat in, if you'd wished.'

She twisted a loose thread from one of her gloves between her fingers. ‘I was grateful for your help last night, Harry - for rushing round at a moment's notice when I called. You were kind and I didn't appreciate it.'

‘Forget it. We were both shocked by Finbar's death.'

‘You - you were a good friend to him. Better than he deserved. Which is why you wanted to press me on what happened between us yesterday afternoon, and why I could read your suspicions of me on your face.'

‘I was only - '

‘And why I came to my senses this morning and saw I was putting you in an impossible position, asking you to help me when, for all you knew, I might have been the person who ran Finbar down.'

Harry could feel his cheeks burning. She was right: foolish to deny it.

‘So I decided today I mustn't presume on you any more. I went out and hired another solicitor: Quentin Pike of Windaybanks. I've heard you mention his name in the past, I remember you saying he was good.'

Her logic was impeccable. The previous night he'd been aware, as Sladdin had, of the incongruity of his assisting a woman who might have been responsible for Finbar's death. Yet perversely he felt a stab of rejection; it was as if he had been judged and found wanting, for owing allegiance to a dead man.

‘I understand.'

‘Judging by your expression, I doubt it. I suppose you think I'm ungrateful. That's why I came here, so I could explain personally, rather than in a note or on the phone.'

‘Well ... thanks for that. And you've done the right thing. Quentin is a good brief.'

‘Yes, he didn't let Sladdin's sidekicks hassle me. They were left in no doubt I was helping them out of public spirit.' She gave him a faint smile. ‘He portrayed me as the grieving girlfriend. I almost believed him myself.'

‘And how do you really feel?'

She passed her tongue across her lips. ‘I'm - I'm too numb to mourn Finbar at the moment. What I'll think when the shock subsides, I simply can't imagine. The last time I saw him alive, I wished him dead.'

‘And you tried to make your wish come true.'

‘With the scissors? Oh, Harry, I just lashed out! It was a momentary aberration, nothing more. You can't seriously believe I would kill in cold blood?'

The pupils of her eyes were dilated. Because of fear about what his answer may be? He thought not.

‘No,' he said. ‘All the same, I'm sure his death was not a cool premeditated crime.'

‘So who is your prime suspect - other than me?'

‘Where do you begin with a man like Finbar? I suppose you could point the finger at Sophie. She says she was with Nick Folley last night. That's untrue, which puts her in the frame - and maybe him as well.'

‘You don't - you don't suspect Nick of being driven to murder by jealousy?'

‘Who knows?' Harry watched for her reaction. ‘He'd already lost you to Finbar, then history repeated itself with Sophie. But there may be some other motive, with roots in the past. Had Finbar known Nick for as long as he'd known Sophie, by any chance?'

‘I don't follow you. He hadn't known Sophie long at all, only since I made the mistake of asking Baz to have him on
Pop In
. A matter of days, in other words. Finbar was a fast worker, don't forget.'

Harry knitted his brow. ‘I thought he and Sophie went back a long way together?'

‘Never. Until this last summer she had a job down south. You surely don't think she picked up that la-di-da accent round here?'

‘Has she spent time in Dublin, then?'

‘If so, it wasn't on her CV. It passed over my desk when she applied to Radio Liverpool - I was working for Nick at the time, of course. Christ, if I'd guessed what a prize bitch she would turn out to be, I'd have shredded the thing before he ever clapped eyes on it!'

Harry nodded absently, trying to take in what she had told him. If she was right, it turned his ideas upside down. He felt a surge of adrenalin. Instinct told him the solution to the puzzle was almost within his grasp.

She stood up. ‘Well, I won't keep you any longer.'

‘I'm glad you hired Pike. You did the right thing.'

‘No hard feelings, then?'

‘Course not. But...'

He hesitated. Even as he spoke he was still trying to untangle the skein of suspicions in his mind.

‘Yes?'

He gnawed at his lower lip.
Go for it
, he told himself.

‘I do have one last question.'

‘Ask away.'

‘Melissa,' he said softly, ‘where do you get your cocaine?'

She cried out, a sharp yelp of panic mixed with shame. A frail hand flew up to cover her mouth.

‘What - what do you mean?'

‘Finbar told me you'd been on drugs. I misunderstood at the time, didn't pay much attention. I thought he was talking about treatment you'd had for your nerves. But of course he meant nose candy. I should have recognised the physical symptoms - I've acted for other coke addicts in my time.'

She stared at him, transfixed with dismay, unable to utter a word.

‘Please,' he said in his gentlest tone, ‘I'd like to help. Not as a lawyer, but as a friend. If you'll only tell me...'

‘Help?' At last her tongue was loosened. ‘Help? You can't be serious, Harry. No one can help me, the mess I'm in. Do you hear? No one!'

And before he could stop her, she had rushed out through the door. He stood listening to the clatter of her heels along the corridor. Thank God Suzanne had gone. Two women had run out on him inside one day; people would start to talk.

He paced around his office, striving to order his thoughts. What to do now? He wandered through the building, checking that all the staff had left for the day, before walking to the front door, where he could make out no more than the dim outlines of the boarded-up construction site on the opposite side of the courtyard.

The boots of an approaching figure crunched towards him. From the murk emerged a spectral figure, clad in heavy anorak and gauntlets. The man pushed back his hood, revealing carroty hair and prominent rabbit's teeth. Harry recognised him as the landlord's agent, someone with whom he'd exchanged occasional words of greeting since the construction work began.

Good. The chance encounter gave him the chance to test another of the ideas taking shape inside his head. He called out: ‘So what happened to McCray's men?'

‘What d'you think? They split as soon as they found out they weren't getting paid. The buggers may be Irish, but they're not bloody daft.'

‘Money trouble?'

‘Too bleeding right. McCray's gone bust.'

Harry nodded. So his latest guess was confirmed; in the end the right answer had been the obvious one. Builders went out of business all the time. And with his own eyes he'd seen McCray haggling with that bespoke-tailored usurer Stuart Graham-Brown.

‘When did the news break?'

‘First thing this morning. He's been paying the men late, they've been threatening to walk out on the job for long enough. Seems he told them he hoped to put some deal in place last night. It didn't come off and there were no wage packets this morning, so that was that as far as they were concerned.' The rabbity man spat on the ground before adding, ‘Can't say I bloody blame 'em either - thought it puts me in a spot. I have to check everything's secure till we get another outfit in to take over the contract. Even on a night like this, stuff walks if you don't keep an eye out.'

Harry leaned forward, conviction that he must talk to the builder growing within him. ‘So what's happened to Dermot McCray?'

‘Christ knows. Drowning his sorrows, if I know him. He's been at it for months, that's why he's let the business run down.'

‘His daughter died, didn't she?'

‘Right. He's not been the same bloody feller since.'

‘Any idea where he drinks?'

‘The De Valera, as a rule. It's that Irish club at the top end of town. The lads used to reckon he spends more time there than he does at home. Why d'you ask?'

‘I'd like to have a word with him.'

‘Owes you a few bob, does he?' The rabbity face brightened at the prospect of someone else's misfortune. ‘You'll get no change out of Dermot McCray. He's a hard bugger at the best of times. You'll be whistling for your cash.'

Harry hurried to his MG. The fog was starting to thicken and as he drove the poor visibility tested concentration to its limits. But his mind kept straying from the road as he tried to decide how to tackle Dermot McCray.

A couple of hundred yards up Islington, he parked on a double yellow line and threaded through an alley clogged with broken bottles and polythene sacks overflowing with noxious rubbish. An amber-eyed cat hissed in warning as he approached the entrance to the De Valera. He banged on the door and was answered by a nattily suited man barely half the size of Mad Max at the Dangerous Liaison.

‘If it isn't Harry Devlin!'

‘Evening, Liam.'

They had met before, in the Dock Brief; Finbar had done the introductions. Liam Keogh was an amiable, balding man whose fondness for the sound of his own voice combined dangerously with an excessive interest in other people's affairs. He was the friend to whom Finbar had unwisely confided his involvement with Eileen McCray - events had proved that equivalent to taking out a prime time slot on commercial television. The McCrays had learned the story and before long Sinead had got to hear of it too. Liam's careless talk might easily have cost lives. Yet there was little malice in him and Harry did not doubt the genuineness of his grief when he spoke again.

‘Harry, it's grand to see you. But faith, what a bad business about Finbar!'

They exchanged words of reminiscence. Here was someone else who had been fond of Finbar, Harry thought. It wasn't true that everyone his client met had become an enemy. He'd roused strong reactions in people - that was nearer the mark.

‘I need to speak to someone and he may be here,' said Harry as soon as an opportunity presented itself. ‘I'm not a member, and I'm not after a drink, so I wondered if - '

‘We don't stand on ceremony with people we know. Who is it you're after seeing?'

‘Dermot McCray.'

Liam's eyebrows shot up. He lowered his voice and with a conspiratorial glance said, ‘You know that Finbar and Dermot's daughter...'

‘Yes. Is Dermot here?'

Liam took a look at Harry and decided the time was not ripe for casual gossip. ‘You're in luck. He showed up not half an hour ago. You'll find him downstairs, supping a pint of Guinness and keeping his own counsel. He's had a lot on his mind since Eileen died. She was the very apple of his eye. And now people say his business is on the skids.'

‘Listen, last time McCray and I met, we got off on the wrong foot. Can you keep him from slamming his pint pot in my face while I ask him a few questions?'

Liam tapped his finger against his nose. ‘Trust me.' He led Harry down an ill-lit corridor lined with sepia-tinted pictures from the 1916 Rebellion. The decor was a dull dark green; a musty smell hung in the air. Harry sensed this was a place for brooding over old battles, a place where grievances could harden into bigotry and anger corrode into a lust for violence.

Dermot McCray was sitting on a stool at the far end of the bar, nursing his Guinness and contemplating the dreariness of his surroundings without visible emotion.

‘Dermot, lad, can I crave a boon? A good friend of mine would welcome a word with you.'

McCray looked at Harry. Scorn tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘You ought to choose your pals with more care, Liam Keogh.'

‘Dermot, I gather you and Harry haven't altogether seen eye to eye in the past. But why don't you let the feller buy you another pint and see if you can't both bury the hatchet?'

‘Best place for the hatchet is in this sod's back.' McCray drained his glass. ‘Anyway, what's it to do with you, Devlin? Your client, that fucking tattooist - he's dead, isn't he?'

‘I expect you're celebrating,' said Harry.

‘Finest news I've heard in a long while.' But McCray's face betrayed no satisfaction. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin grey. Eileen's death had eaten at him like a cancer; Harry could identify the signs. He suddenly experienced a burst of fellow feeling for the big brutish Irishman.