The Devil in Disguise (5 page)

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Authors: Martin Edwards

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Hard-Boiled, #detective, #noire, #petrocelli, #suspense, #marple, #whodunnit, #Detective and Mystery, #death, #police, #morse, #taggart, #christie, #legal, #Crime, #shoestring, #poirot, #law, #murder, #killer, #holmes, #ironside, #columbo, #clue, #hoskins, #Thriller, #solicitor, #hitchcock, #cluedo, #cracker, #diagnosis

BOOK: The Devil in Disguise
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Jonah's parents had named him wisely. In the unlikely event that he had ever had a shred of optimism in his make-up, a career in the CID followed by long years operating on his own account had served to rob him of it. What puzzled Harry was Jonah's use of the royal we. The old man was usually as careful in his choice of phrase as a Chancery lawyer and since leaving the force he had operated as a one-man band. Surely at his time of life he was not about to turn over a new leaf?

‘This is Harry Devlin. I have new instructions for you. Can we meet at one o'clock for a bite of lunch on board the
Queer Fish
?'

He felt pleased at having couched his request in terms that Jonah would find difficult to resist. Provided he picked up the message during the morning, the prospect of a paying job coupled with a free lunch and a trip to his beloved waterfront should ensure the old man's presence at the appointed time.

He still couldn't make up his mind whether the man with Vera had been Luke Dessaur. He rang Luke's home number but there was no reply. A metallic voice on Luke's mobile number told him that the phone was switched off and please to try later. He put the receiver down and told himself that he'd run out of excuses to delay sifting through his correspondence. He was wondering why, whenever he received a particularly stupid letter from another solicitor, it came on letterhead festooned with quality assurance logos when his receptionist rang.

‘Kim Lawrence for you.' Suzanne had an extraordinary gift for uttering the four words with the aural equivalent of a knowing wink and a nudge in the ribs. Harry's involvement with the solicitor from Mersey Chambers was now widely known, although he still found difficulty himself in defining their relationship. He felt himself blushing even as he asked for her to be put through.

‘Sorry to bother you,' Kim began before pausing. He was struck by her tentative tone. Outside the office she could be a mass of contradictions and uncertainties, but during working hours she adopted the persona of the cool, decisive lawyer with such skill that very few realised that it was no more than a disguise.

‘Glad you rang. I was wondering if you would be interested in seeing
Vertigo
again? It's on at the Philharmonic Picture Palace.'

‘Thanks - but is there any chance I can see you before then? Tonight, for instance?'

‘Sure.' He was surprised by the urgency of her tone, but gratified by it. ‘What would you like to do?'

‘Tonight is the annual general meeting of the Liverpool Legal Group. I haven't been for years, I thought I might show my face this time. Shall I perhaps see you there?'

Harry knitted his brow. From anyone else, the suggestion would have been a patent leg-pull. He loathed the politics of their profession. For him, attending a lawyers' talking shop held as much appeal as undergoing a colonic irrigation. Yet her question was not satiric, but rather anxious - almost pleading. Quite out of character. He would need to feel his way through this conversation. ‘I hadn't planned...' he began.

‘Sorry,' she said quickly. ‘I should have realised. Silly idea. Forget it.'

‘No, no. Jim reckons I ought to take an interest in the future of the profession. I say the Legal Group has no more influence over it than a bunch of fortune tellers. But if you're going, perhaps I should break the habit of a lifetime.'

‘Fine,' she breathed. ‘And thanks.'

‘No problem. I can moan about diminishing profits with the best of them. And it'll be good to see you again.'

‘You too,' she said quietly.

Suzanne rang to say that Jonah had called back to confirm their lunch meeting. Things were beginning to move. On his way out to court, he looked round Jim's door. His partner looked up from the glossy brochure he was studying and said, ‘We need to sharpen up our corporate image.'

Harry groaned. This was old ground. ‘Don't tell me. Another public relations consultancy has got its claws into you. Remember the salesman who wanted us to sponsor a Formula One racing car? With our luck, it would have crashed at the first bend and incinerated the driver.'

‘You're prejudiced. Old-fashioned. We need to move with the times, keep up with the competition. The woman who phoned me is full of ideas. We could hold a season of seminars for regular clients, mailshot them with news of changes in the law.'

‘Wonderful. Do you think the governor of Walton Jail might let us circulate our clients with details of how to lodge an appeal against conviction?'

Jim scowled. ‘Your idea of practice development is buying a round for the villains who hang out at the Dock Brief.'

‘Don't knock it. It works. And I'm quite willing to raise my blood-alcohol level in the line of duty.'

‘We need to be proactive.' A thought evidently struck Jim and he tossed the brochure across the desk. ‘I've talked to her on the phone and she's offered to come in for an hour to talk things through. Are you interested?'

Harry glanced at the photograph on the front cover. ‘Juliet May Communications? And this is Juliet May, I presume?'

‘Uh-huh.'

She was a striking redhead with large brown eyes. Harry gazed at the picture for a few seconds and said, ‘Obviously, it would be wrong for me to pre-judge matters. I suppose in fairness I ought to give her a hearing.'

Jim grinned. ‘I thought that on reflection you'd be willing to reconsider. Leave it with me, I'll fix something up. I warned her you'd be a challenge - to say the least - but she was quite relaxed about that, said a one-to-one session with you would suit her fine.'

‘She obviously has good taste.'

‘She'll learn. So how was your meeting at the Piquet Club?'

‘I didn't get to look at the naughty books. Must be slipping. The trustees spent most of their time bitching about Blackhurst. And guess what? She was out on the town herself last night.'

He described his sighting of her outside the Ensenada. ‘I even wondered if the man with her was Luke. But quite apart from the fact he can't stand the sight of her, he's not as solidly built as the chap I saw. All the same, I'll mention it to Jonah. The trustees were happy to instruct him and I'm seeing him for lunch. If anyone can dig the dirt on Vera, he can.'

‘You think there is dirt to be dug?'

‘Why not? How many people do you know without a skeleton in their cupboard?'

Only as he left the office did Harry reflect on his partner's pained expression and wonder if his careless final remark had been misinterpreted. Jim was an uxorious man, married with two children, but last year he had wandered from the straight and narrow with an attractive girl, a woman police officer much younger than his wife. Harry was the only other person who knew about the relationship: he'd once barged in on them at the most delicate moment imaginable. So far as he knew, Jim had now stopped seeing the other woman. He certainly hoped so; he cared for the Crusoes and did not want to see any of them hurt. But he sensed that even if Jim managed never to be found out, his conscience would continue to trouble him.

He headed through the city streets under a sky that threatened rain. Charles Kavanaugh had been buried on just such a day. Harry had been required to represent the firm at the funeral because Jim was involved in a heavy property deal; it had given him the opportunity to meet Vera Blackhurst for the one and only time. She had been dressed from head to toe in black and kept wiping away tears from her heavily made-up cheeks. Harry had taken an instant dislike to her. Perhaps it was unfair, perhaps she had worshipped the ground that the dead man had walked on. But somehow he could not believe it. When he had muttered a few words of condolence to her at the graveside, she had burst into uncontrollable weeping. Grief took different people in different ways, but when she put her handkerchief away, he noticed that her small dark eyes were as hard and unemotional as pieces of coal.

Outside the magistrates' court, the wild-eyed vagrant the local lawyers called Davey Damnation was in full cry. He was a cadaverous figure who had been hanging around the city for months and his knowledge of the Book of Revelation surpassed even Harry's familiarity with
The Big Sleep
.

‘And the city had no need of the sun!'

‘Thought you were a prophet of doom, not a weather forecaster,' Harry murmured. But out of a strange mixture of habit and superstition, he tossed a few coins into the battered hat which Davey kept at his feet. The response was less than euphoric.

‘He that is unjust, let him be unjust still!'

Harry grinned. ‘That's no way to talk about the chairman of the bench.'

Davey glared. If he had ever possessed a sense of humour, it must have been worn away by years of living rough. His age was unguessable: perhaps early forties, but he had the weathered flesh of a man twenty years older. He drew in his breath, but before he could launch into another diatribe, Harry hurried into the building. When he emerged a couple of hours later, he had secured an acquittal for one client and a paltry fine with time to pay for another. The clouds had rolled away, too. Perhaps it was going to be his day.

Davey thought otherwise. He jabbed his forefinger at Harry as if pointing out a bag thief on an identity parade.

‘And the smoke of their torment ascendeth up for ever and ever: and they have no rest day nor night.'

The prophet's understanding of the difficulties faced by the local legal profession was remarkably acute, Harry decided. He strolled down Dale Street in the direction of the waterfront. The river was quiet, as usual these days. More freight was put through the Port of Liverpool now than at any time in its history, but the supertankers lacked the romance of the old days, when the world's ships had sailed here. He sighed and turned into the Albert Dock complex. The
Queer Fish
was a small restaurant boat moored outside Gladstone Pavilion that offered snacks and meals to tourists and a wealth of gossip to locals. As Harry stepped on board, the proprietor hailed him like a returning prodigal.

‘If it isn't Harry Devlin! How super to see you again. Where have you been hiding yourself?'

What would be an effusive greeting from anyone else was par for the course with the rubicund matelot standing by the kitchen door. Harry knew that the warmth of his welcome was genuine. Dusty Rhodes loved people and good food in equal measure. He had once been a cook in the Royal Navy, but nowadays running the
Queer Fish
was as close as he came to a life on the ocean waves. His affectionate nature had led to an incident resulting in his dishonourable discharge, but in the safer waters of the Albert Dock he was able to indulge his passions to his heart's content.

‘Yeah, long time no see. I've invited Jonah Deegan along.' Dusty knew the detective, who was always happy to have lunch here if a client could be found to foot the bill. ‘Any chance of a quiet table for two?'

‘Your wish is my command. Follow me.' Dusty looked back over his shoulder. ‘Old Jonah, eh? So is the game afoot, as Sherlock would say?'

Harry took a seat. ‘Ask no questions and I'll tell you no lies.'

Dusty pouted. ‘Spoilsport. Ah, here's the man himself.'

Harry glanced towards the door. Jonah Deegan was hobbling towards him. The old man suffered badly from arthritis and was in the queue for a hip replacement. But Jonah on one leg was still more effective than most inquiry agents on two: he had the priceless gift of being able to accept nothing at face value. In response to Dusty's cheery greeting, he simply scowled. Old habits died hard and Jonah had never had any time for shirtlifters. But Dusty was a detective's dream, a mine of information about goings-on in the city who simply loved to be quarried. With Jonah, the job mattered more than anything and he just about managed to keep his prejudices in check. Harry suspected that the old fellow might even entertain a sneaking regard for Dusty, but knew he would sooner die than admit to it.

‘Glad you got my message. Pull up a chair and after we've had a bite I'll explain what I'm looking for.'

‘I've got company,' the old man said with his habitual truculence.

Harry had noticed a bespectacled young woman in dungarees threading her way through the tables behind Jonah, but he had not imagined they were together. She stepped forward and offered her hand. ‘Stephanie Hall. Pleased to meet you, Mr Devlin. I've heard a lot about you.'

As they shook hands, Harry tried to weigh her up. She had a fresh face, a mop of unruly fair hair and a grip that would not have shamed a prison warder. There was something about her cast of features that reminded Harry of someone, but he could not place it. He was too busy wondering why Jonah had brought her along.

‘I never realised I was famous.'

‘Your detective exploits, of course. Jonah here has told me all about the cases you've been involved with. He doesn't have much time for amateurs but I bet that, if pushed, he might make an exception for you.'

Harry was bemused by the fond, almost proprietorial way in which she referred to the old man, who was shifting uncomfortably in his chair. ‘You work together?' he asked cautiously.

‘Partners,' Stephanie beamed.

He gaped at her. Female private eyes were nothing new, but
Jonah
teaming up with a girl less than half his age? It was less likely than a joint venture between the Law Society and a troupe of morris dancers. ‘Oh. Right. And since when...?'

‘Well, I'm jumping the gun slightly. Officially the partnership commencement date is the first of next month. But I'm on board now and we've made a few small changes already.'

‘Ah. The answering machine?'

‘For example. Though I'm having some trouble persuading Jonah to switch it on. But as I've said to him, we have to move with the times. Clients' expectations have changed since he first hung up his nameplate. We have to offer a quality service. Customer care. Value for money.'

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