I Remember You (4 page)

In the face of which even the most resilient advocate had to admit defeat. No one was surprised when Cody awarded Sinead a pittance that fell well short of what Finbar had said he was willing to pay. Harry bustled his client out of the courtroom before their luck could change.

The temperature outside had dropped and they walked along Brunswick Street through thickening mist. Finbar seemed miles away. His shoulders were hunched, his dark eyes were glazed; he didn't even notice when they passed two pretty girls whose giggling suggested they were in the mood for a little street banter.

Harry felt overwhelmed by the desire to follow up what Sinead had said. He remembered that on the way back from the Danger, Finbar had spoken of a girl called Eileen before stopping himself. Who was she and why had mention of her name induced such a guilty response?

Curiosity in a lawyer, Harry knew, can be costly. There are so many things it is better not to know. But riddles tantalised him; even to leave a crossword puzzle unfinished filled him with frustration. He always hungered to learn a little more, to help make sense of life's innumerable mysteries.

‘So who was Eileen?'

Finbar halted in mid-stride. He considered Harry with care, as if wondering how much to give away.

‘For once in my life, I'd rather not utter a word. All I'll say is this: at lunch I said women will be the death of me. But it was different with that poor kid Eileen. I was the death of her.'

Chapter Five

‘What d'you call a Scouser in a five-bedroomed detached house?' asked the boy on the makeshift stage in the Russian Convoy's cavernous public bar. ‘A burglar. What d'you call a Scouser wearing a collar and tie? The accused.'

He was a scraggy teenager wearing a dinner suit two sizes too big for him. Most of his jokes had been old long before he was born, but he told them fast out of the corner of his mouth and just about deserved the spurt of applause which greeted the end of his act.

Which was more than could be said for most of the evening's entertainers, reflected Harry. Flanked by Finbar and Melissa Keating, he'd spent the last hour and a half watching a procession of hopefuls for whom opportunity was never likely to knock. A ventriloquist with an inflatable doll; a woman who mimicked bird noises; a juggling traffic warden and a Rastafarian banjo player; together with more comedians than were members of Liverpool City Council.

He finished his pint. At least the beer was good. The Russian Convoy was a relic of days gone by, in the quality of its interior design as well as its ale. The decor was heavy, with much emphasis on red plush and gilt. The ornate plasterwork on the ceiling was supposed to be a fine example of its kind; something for customers to admire as they slid to the floor at the end of an evening. And listening to some of these acts would have driven a Rechabite to drink.

A skinny girl who rejoiced in the name of Rosie Rollings began to murder ‘Memory' in a thick Scouse accent.
Rosie for remembrance
, thought Harry, closing his eyes, remembering another Rosemary. The gorgeous Mrs Graham-Brown. The brief encounter in reception earlier that day had stayed in his mind; merely to recall it roused him, made him shiver with the need to see her again.

He was a fool, he realised, to let his imagination roam. After all, he had scarcely spoken to her; moreover, she was unattainable, a married woman, about to leave Liverpool for Spain. But she reminded him of Liz, and whenever Liz had tempted, he had been sure to succumb.

Meanwhile Finbar was scarcely setting an example of restraint. In his white suit and velvet bow tie, he looked too natty for a waterfront pub less than an hour before chucking-out time: a wolf in Moss Bros clothing. Earlier in the day he had refused point blank to say any more about the mysterious Eileen, and now he was misbehaving yet again. All night the Irish eyes had been smiling at the curvy redhead producing the local radio broadcast of the event. The girl hadn't failed to notice. Every now and then she favoured him with a glance, once even a brief mock bow of acknowledgement. Harry's mind slid back to his visit to the Danger. Finbar might have met the redhead when making his own guest appearance on the breakfast radio show. Could she be the girl he had hoped to meet at the nightclub?

If Melissa was aware that Finbar's attention was wandering, she gave no hint of it. He had left a hand in hers, as if to reserve his interest while his mind was otherwise engaged. Out of the corner of one eye, Harry saw Melissa give the strong hairy fingers a squeeze. To his surprise, he found the gesture irksome. How did Finbar do it? How could someone to whom infidelity was no more important than a sneeze captivate women with such ease? It was impossible for an ordinary man not to feel a stab of jealousy.

Finbar's good fortune might have been easier to bear had Melissa not been lovely enough to have her choice of men. At first glance, she resembled a sculpture rather than a living woman. Her skin seemed too pale, too flawless, to belong to a creature made of flesh and blood. Yet once or twice during the evening Harry had sensed a tremor running through her; he could only guess at the effort of will she must have made to suppress it.

What could be bothering her? The arson attack? Or was she more aware of her boyfriend's philandering than she appeared? Finbar had said she had had trouble with nerves and looking at her, Harry was struck by the vulnerability of the thin body beneath the lycra dress, a fragility that put him in mind of a piece of porcelain. Melissa, he thought, might easily break. When he'd talked with her in the past, he'd gathered she saw Finbar as a challenge and wanted to persuade him to mend his errant ways. Mission impossible, of course; it would be easier to teach the Liver Birds to fly.

At long last the show drew to a close and the disc jockey who had been acting as compere proclaimed the scraggy teenager the winner, going on to introduce the man who would present the lad with his cheque. ‘Put your hands together for the gentleman responsible for the sponsorship of this fantastic evening's entertainment. The managing director of Radio Liverpool - Mr Nick Folley!'

Taking the applause as no more than his due, Nick Folley strode on to the stage. His jowls had fleshed out and his wavy hair had thinned since his days as a rising star of local television; Harry could even discern, beneath the Italian suit, the beginnings of an executive paunch. For upwards of fifteen years Folley had been the golden boy of the Merseyside media, envied and disliked by many, but always a force to be reckoned with. It seemed that everything he touched made him money. And, for good measure, he was not only Melissa's boss but had also, until recently, been her lover.

‘A boy from Bootle who wants to make the big time has three choices,' he said into the microphone. ‘Music, football or comedy. Wayne here is tone deaf and has two left feet. Thank Heavens he's a born funny man.'

He pumped the lad's hand before turning to give the redhead a wink, self-satisfaction splashed over his face like ice cream. Harry had first seen that thick-lipped smirk on the small screen umpteen years ago when Folley's duties included announcing the region's weather. Even then, he could make a forecast of black ice on the M6 sound like a cause for self-congratulation.

Since then he had kept in the public eye, persistent as a piece of grit. A ‘leisure industry entrepreneur', he called himself, which meant in his time he'd run a nightclub and a ritzy restaurant on the Albert Dock, besides owning a recording studio and a half share in the Sergeant Pepper theme park out in Southport. Time and again envious journalists scoffed at Folley's Follies; yet, like a termagant wife, he always managed to have the last word.

As the lights dimmed and the winner of the contest disappeared in a crowd of jubilant family and friends, Folley kissed the redhead and she responded with enthusiasm. Harry knew media folk were demonstrative, but he guessed there was more between the couple than a mere working relationship. Interesting, he thought. And it might become explosive if Finbar, having taken up with Folley's previous girlfriend, now developed too close an interest in the great man's latest dolly bird. Folley was not a man to cross; his ferocious outbursts of temper were legendary. Years ago he'd famously punched a regional newscaster on screen. Nonetheless, he had managed to get his own contract renewed; the other man was rumoured to be selling second-hand cars somewhere in the Morecambe area these days.

‘I suppose we ought to mingle,' said Melissa. ‘Show the Radio Liverpool flag.'

Harry gave a non-committal smile. After enduring Rosie and the juggling traffic warden, he felt a white flag would have been more appropriate.

While Finbar ordered drinks, Harry followed Melissa through the people converging on the bar, pushing past the giggly girls in Radio Liverpool sweatshirts who lavished promotional leaflets on anyone who wandered within reach of their outstretched hands. They headed towards the stage, where the musicians and engineers were packing their gear.

Melissa pointed to a handsome fair-haired man in his early to mid thirties, deep in conversation with a girl in a clinging mini-dress.

‘Look who's there! Baz Gilbert. I'll call him over and you can have a chance to rehearse for tomorrow's broadcast.'

Baz was rubbing his hand over the girl's rump and she seemed to be loving it. Her features were strong, although a diagonal scar running from the left side of her mouth to her chin robbed her of beauty. But the passion with which she gazed into Baz's eyes was shameless.

‘Who's the girl with him?'

‘Penny from Sales. She's been crazy about Baz ever since she joined the station.' Raising her voice, Melissa said, ‘Baz! Come and meet Harry Devlin. Your guest for tomorrow.'

Ten days earlier in the Dock Brief, Finbar had urged Harry to make a guest appearance on Radio Liverpool one morning. ‘No problem,' he'd said. ‘Simply give me the word and I'll ask Melissa to fix it. Baz Gilbert has the most listeners, more than ever since he gave up his late night show and moved to early mornings. You can review the newspapers, ask Baz to spin your favourite disc, give Crusoe and Devlin a plug. Go on, it'll do your image a power of good. I'm on
Pop In
myself next week - same idea, spread the word about my business. The oxygen of publicity, to coin a phrase. You can't beat it.'

Finbar was so sure he was bestowing a favour that Harry was tempted to act like a senile old judge asking what a compact disc was and demand, ‘Baz who?' But he could hardly deny knowing the name. Baz Gilbert had done the rounds of the Merseyside media; after reporting on pop for the
Daily Post
and spending a couple of years with Radio City, he'd started a midnight phone-in programme on Radio Merseyside before moving back to the commercial side when Nick Folley had launched the city's third station. Like Folley, he was a local personality.

The resemblance went no further. There was no hint of self-regard in Baz's cool blue eyes or ironic smile. He didn't brawl in public to boost his ratings, though the telephone callers to his show whose mouths were bigger than their brains might have preferred a punch in the stomach to one of his sardonic put-downs. Whereas Nick Folley's aggression had fuelled a successful business career, Baz remained a nearly man. He would never be a fat cat or, Harry guessed, make it into national radio. Though he had a loyal following, after ten years on the Merseyside airwaves, he still earned his living by dedicating top ten songs to Toxteth's teenage lovers and opening grocery stores in Garston.

Nodding to Melissa, Baz said, ‘Harry Devlin? Pleased to meet you. This is Penny Newland, a very good friend of mine.'

The girl said hello in a soft Irish accent and clutched at Baz's hand, pushing it towards respectability.

The disc jockey turned to her. ‘Harry here is a lawyer in the city centre. He's sacrificing a couple of billable hours to appear on the show in the morning.

‘Following in Finbar's footsteps,' said Melissa.

‘A hard act to follow. The guy's such a good bullshitter, he almost had me investing in a tattoo. They certainly look good on the right body. You know Melissa's fancy man, Harry?'

‘Actually Finbar introduced us,' said Melissa, while the dark girl studied her fingernails. ‘Harry's his brief.'

‘Did you hear him on air, Harry? The bugger caused a commotion when he changed his mind at the last minute about his favourite music. Mind you, he managed to twist my producer round his little finger.'

Harry had meant to tune in to Finbar's appearance on
Pop In
, if only to pick up a few tips. But work had claimed priority, following an early morning police raid on a shopkeeper client whose stock of videos gave a new meaning to the concept of animal husbandry.

‘Missed it,' he said. ‘I'm sure he was good.'

‘Flattery will get you everywhere, provided you don't charge me for it on your next account,' said the Irishman, returning with the drinks. ‘Evening, Penny, Baz. So we haven't discovered another Ken Dodd or Cilla Black tonight? Ah, perhaps it's as well.'

Penny Newland grimaced. Harry guessed that, like Kim Lawrence, she was one of those women who found Finbar's chat easy to resist. Still irked by the redhead's encouragement of his client's ogling, Harry began to warm to her.

‘Don't you think we ought to circulate, darling?' she said quietly.

‘Sure,' said Baz, wrapping his arm round her shoulder. ‘Nice meeting you, Harry. Till tomorrow.
Ciao
, Melissa.'

Finbar handed Harry his pint. ‘Here. Help you blot out the memory of the last couple of hours.'

Melissa turned to Harry. ‘Don't let Nick-'

‘About to take my name in vain?'

Nick Folley's voice was a brash boom. He placed his lips against Melissa's cheek in the manner of a man exercising
droit de seigneur
. Harry saw a spasm of dislike distort her fine features and sensed the stiffening of her body in resistance. He recalled Finbar's description of the man: ‘If he was a chocolate drop, he'd eat himself.'

‘The name's Folley,' said the newcomer to Harry. He was holding a glass of red wine and had in tow the girl whom Finbar had been eyeing up all evening. Like each of his employees here tonight, Nick Folley wore a Radio Liverpool name badge; yet his tone made it plain that he knew self-introduction was unnecessary.

‘This is Harry Devlin,' said Melissa. Harry sensed she was trying to control a shiver and her reaction intrigued him. Was it mere distaste for her boss - or fear?'

‘Harry's my solicitor,' Finbar said.

Nick Folley cast a quick contemptuous glance at the Irishman, but when he spoke his voice was as smooth as ever and he wore his smile like a mask.

‘I imagine you keep him busy.'

‘Harry's starring on Baz's show tomorrow,' said Melissa.

‘Great,' said Nick Folley, his manner making Harry feel like a first-former in the presence of the Head of School. ‘In that case, er - Harry? - meet Sophie Wilkins. She produces Baz.'

‘Hi,' said the redhead huskily.

She pecked Melissa on the cheek and Finbar wasted no time in kissing her hand with a flourish worthy of Errol Flynn. Sophie threw a glance of triumph at Melissa, as if to say:
See, I have the boss and your boyfriend, both dangling on a string
. As she shook Harry's hand, her freckled breasts almost bobbed free of the confines of her black velvet dress.