Waterloo Sunset E-Book

Martin Edwards

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Harry Devlin
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 459

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

IN MEMORY Harry Devlin Died Suddenly Liverpool Midsummer's Eve No one expects to read their own obituary. Liverpool lawyer Harry Devlin never knew five short lines could be so menacing - someone wants him dead and he's only got seven days to find the killer. When the mutilated corpse of a young woman washes up on Waterloo Beach, Harry wonders if the premature notice of his demise and the discovery of a dead girl might be connected. Now he's only got six days...

Leseprobe

Waterloo Sunset

MARTIN EDWARDS

Dedicated to Bill Grice

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

The First Day

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

The Second Day

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Third Day

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

The Fourth Day

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Fifth Day

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Sixth Day

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The Seventh Day

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

AUTHOR’S NOTE

About the Author

By Martin Edwards

Copyright

The First Day

INMEMORY

Harry Devlin

Died suddenly,

Liverpool,

Midsummer’s Eve

CHAPTER ONE

Harry Devlin stared at the announcement of his death.

The sheet of paper came from an envelope bearing his name. No covering note, no explanation. He turned it all around and upside down, feeling like a volunteer confronted by a stage illusion. No clues leapt out, no hint of the author’s identity. Nothing but those stark words in between the black borders.

His brow furrowed. Not even ‘In Loving Memory’.

The sun sneaked behind a cloud, and his swish new office slumped into shadow. A fortnight in, he still didn’t feel at home. The room reeked of paint, the comfort cooling dried his throat and the computer’s state-of-the-art hum set his teeth on edge. It might be healthier to crowbar a window open and inhale exhaust fumes wafting up from the Strand.

He swallowed a mouthful of black coffee from a mug that insisted Old Lawyers Never Die – They Just Lose Their Appeal. On his way back from court, he’d stopped off to down a couple of pints of Cain’s after a torrid morning before the magistrates, trying to make crime pay. If his head swam, blame strong ale on an empty stomach, not a weird anonymous message.

A hoax, it had to be. He had nothing to fear.

Midsummer’s Eve, what was all that about? He glanced at the desk calendar; a gift from a client who owned a funeral parlour. One page for each day of the year, accompanied by a motto in Gothic script above a logo of a setting sun.

Change your thoughts and you change your world.

Monday 18 June. Not quite Midsummer.

He’d fed the envelope into the jaw of a tall box marked ‘For Shredding and Recycling – Guaranteed Secure, Environmentally Friendly and Confidential’. A child of two could have prised off the lid. He reached down, as if into a lucky dip, and fished out his prize. A cheap, crumpled envelope, bearing his name in bold type. No stamp, no postmark. It hadn’t been sent by the solicitors’ document exchange. Hand delivery, must be.

The puzzle provoked him. Someone had invaded his life, and he wanted to find out who, and why.

He grabbed the sheet, and raced down the corridor to an airy space with a welcome desk and chairs that squelched when you sat down. Double glazed windows looked out over the Parish Church gardens and city beyond. A slim woman in a uniform of green jacket and skirt was watering bamboos and weeping figs in pots of fired earth. He might have strayed into the Palm House at Sefton Park instead of Crusoe and Devlin’s reception area.

The woman swung round to face him, flicking tendrils of dark hair out of her eyes. The leafy logo of Green and Pleasant Plant Care was embroidered on her jacket breast. Her cast of features spoke of Chinese origins, but her accent was born-and-bred Scouse.

‘Posh new premises, Harry. How are things?’

‘Good, thanks, Kay.’ Her full name was Ka-Yu Cheung, but she preferred Kay. ‘And you?’

Her cautious smile revealed perfect teeth. She said she was fine, and he thought she was about to ask a question, but a glance at the woman behind the desk seemed to change her mind. The receptionist had frizzed blonde hair, a solarium tan and the pout of a spoilt child. Her nose was stuck in a dog-eared Danielle Steel and she didn’t favour Harry with a glance until he spoke to her.

‘Suzanne, that letter I picked up when I came back from court.’ He nodded towards an alcove where the post trays squatted. ‘Who brought it in?’

The receptionist sighed, a low gust of patience tried beyond endurance, and book-marked the paperback with her nail file. She screwed up her face in a dumb-show of brain-racking before the inevitable admission of defeat.

‘Haven’t a clue.’

‘It wasn’t with the rest of the morning mail. Someone must have delivered it specially.’

‘I’m only just back from my break.’ A mutinous note crept into her voice. ‘People are always coming and going. Juniors with files, folk filling up the water cooler, tradesmen hammering so loud you can’t hear yourself think. I might as well be sat on a traffic island in the middle of Lime Street. This isn’t like the old building, you know.’

Harry glanced outside. The windows in their last office had been encrusted with grime, so that the city outside was tinted sepia, like an Edwardian photograph in a dusty junk shop. Now the glitzy hotels and apartment blocks of twenty-first-century Liverpool shimmered like a mirage in the summer light. Cranes swivelled like sentinels, and drills roared as they churned up paving stones. He’d lived here all his life, yet sometimes he lost his bearings amid the roadworks and the fenced-off sites, with their hard-hat signs and blood-red warnings to put safety first.

‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s not the same.’

A gawky figure in St Nicholas Gardens caught his eye. Wasn’t that Tom Gunter? Tom was Kay’s boyfriend. A skinny, dark-haired young man in a black tee shirt and jeans, his gait was energetic but jerky, as though a puppeteer dangled him on twisted strings.

‘Are you all right?’ Kay asked.

In Kay’s eyes, Tom could do no wrong. He might be moody, but he was misunderstood. A year ago, he’d been charged with stabbing a neighbour to death and Kay persuaded him to ask Harry to conduct his defence. Trouble was, Harry suspected that Tom had stabbed the woman in a cocaine-fuelled rage when he tried it on with her and she’d said no. The psychiatric reports blathered on about anger management issues, and when Harry asked if he’d consider pleading to manslaughter, Tom flew into a temper and sacked him on the spot. He hired another lawyer with fewer scruples and more friends in the underworld, and within weeks the main witness for the prosecution withdrew her evidence. The case collapsed and Tom walked free. Even so, he was the sort to bear a grudge. Maybe he’d dropped in that cryptic note about Midsummer’s Eve.

‘I can see Tom down in the gardens.’

Kay bent to place the watering can on the floor, giving herself a few seconds to decide what to say.

‘It’s sunny for once, so this morning we walked into town together.’

‘You walked?’

Last time he’d heard, they lived out in Halewood, miles away.

‘We’ve…we’ve moved to an apartment at the Marina.’

The Marina? That wouldn’t come cheap. She sounded embarrassed rather than proud and a flush came to her olive skin. Harry wondered if she knew about the note. He was seized by the urge to confront Tom, and find out if he’d written it. A spur of the moment decision, no time to stop and think. Best catch up with him before he vanished from sight. With a nod to Kay, Harry shimmied between a pair of palms and thumbed the lift button marked with a downward arrow.

‘Harry…’

As the receptionist leant forward, ears pricking up, Kay’s voice trailed away. Maybe she meant to warn him not to do anything rash. But it was too late to break the habit of a lifetime.

Harry liked Kay. She had a blind spot about the man who shared her life, but her naivety was part of her charm. Even if Tom made trouble for him, it wasn’t fair to drag her into it.

‘Can I catch you later?’

‘Yes, you’re busy. I’ll see you soon.’

As the lift doors closed, she turned to a yucca with leaves like scimitars. He leant against the side of the carriage and rubbed his eyes. At one time, he could have downed a liquid lunch and felt none the worse. He contemplated his reflection in the mirror. A baffled face stared back at him.

Died suddenly?

The burly ex-docker who guarded the entrance foyer was deep in conversation with a wrinkled crony who resembled the late WH Auden. If a masked gunman ran into John Newton House, Harry rated the odds of his being spotted at evens.

With scant hope, he asked, ‘Have you seen a feller in a black shirt go up to the fifth floor in the past hour?’

‘Search me, mate.’ The concierge shook his head in sorrow. He was an amiable man who was glad to help if it didn’t cause him inconvenience. ‘We get all sorts in and out of here, don’t we?’

The crony clicked his false teeth by way of confirmation. An aroma of cod and vinegar clung to him; he was a fish and chip supper in human form.

‘You know how it is, Harry. Hard to keep track.’

‘Don’t you issue everyone with visitor ID?’

‘Run out of badges, mate. New office, landlord cutting corners. Bound to be a few glitches.’

Thanks for nothing. Harry headed through the side door and out into a small courtyard. A narrow pathway led in one direction through gardens stretching towards the lantern spire of the parish church, and in the other to the six-lane highway of the Strand. Harry checked the benches that faced the waterfront, and spotted his quarry.

Tom Gunter sat alone, scanning the horizon in a spaced-out way. His eyes were bloodshot and glazed. Harry strode over to the bench, the announcement of his demise squeezed between thumb and forefinger.

‘Hey, Tom. Long time, no see.’

Tom Gunter gazed into nothingness, paid him no heed. Harry flourished the sheet under his nose.

‘Did you write this?’

Tom blinked, like a time traveller adjusting to Planet Earth.

‘Uh?’

‘Midsummer’s Eve,’ Harry snapped. ‘Sounds familiar?’

Tom bared his teeth. Spots of anger reddened the pale cheeks.

‘What…are you talking about?’

He sprang up and snatched the piece of paper from Harry’s hand. He gave it a quick glance, then screwed it into a ball.

‘Died suddenly? Is that right?’

He wasn’t faking ignorance, there was no point. Besides, the message was enigmatic, and Tom didn’t do enigmatic.

‘If it’s nothing to do with you, fine,’ Harry said. ‘My apologies, I’ll see you around.’

A black Swiss army knife appeared in Tom Gunter’s palm. It came from nowhere, flourished with a magician’s sleight of hand. A small blade glinted in the sun.

‘Bastard,’ he said.

Harry gritted his teeth. People said he was too impulsive for a lawyer. One of these days, recklessness would be the death of him. But not today. Tom wasn’t that stupid.

‘Look, I made a mistake.’

‘Dead right.’

Harry glanced around. A minute earlier, half a dozen people were strolling around the garden. Now they had disappeared, perhaps into the church to say a little prayer. They’d better put a good word in for him.

Tom Gunter stood up, caressing the blade as if it were a woman’s cheek. Harry didn’t move. He’d acted for enough criminals to know better than to give an inch. They often made threats they didn’t mean to carry out.

‘Put the knife away, Tom. No need for any grief.’

Tom’s laugh was packed with scorn.

‘No need for grief? Bit late for that. You have no…’

His words were drowned by a peal of bells from the church tower. Three o’clock, there must be an afternoon service. At the same moment, a siren rang from the building on the other side of the iron railings that enclosed the garden. Within seconds, a swarm of men and women in business suits buzzed out of the canopied front door. A firm of stockbrokers, observing a fire drill.

Tom lunged forward and Harry lost his footing. He clutched at a black litter bin, but couldn’t save himself from falling. The breath smashed out of his lungs as he hit the ground. Tom’s shadow towered over him. Steel-tipped size ten boots loomed an inch from his forehead

This was Liverpool. Anything might happen.

Harry shut his eyes. His body was taut.

‘Lucky for you I have to…’ Tom muttered. ‘Next time…’

The boots clattered into the distance and when Harry looked, Tom was disappearing into Chapel Street. He hauled himself to his feet and limped over to pick up the screwed-up notice with the report of his death. The chattering stockbrokers took no notice; the grubby marks on his Marks and Spencer suit and scuffed shoes didn’t suggest he was a prospective client of high net worth.

He shielded his eyes. The gardens were full of maritime artefacts and memorials to people who died in the war. The church was dwarfed by the shiny towers of a new Liverpool that knew nothing of the past. Curvy glass buildings winked and preened in the sun, as if to say Do ya think I’m sexy?

He rubbed his hip. It felt tender, and tomorrow he would have a bruise. Otherwise, no harm done.

Still five days to go before Midsummer’s Eve.

CHAPTER TWO

‘Did you get my message?’

Harry spun round as Wayne Saxelby clapped him on the shoulder at the entrance to the church gardens. Had Wayne written the note about Midsummer’s Eve? He couldn’t guess why a management consultant might foretell his death. Some kind of trendy motivational tool?

‘Sorry?’

Wayne’s smile showed lots of expensively whitened teeth. ‘This morning I popped into your office and asked Amazing Grace if you’d spare me five minutes after you came back from court.’

Grace was the temporary substitute for Harry’s secretary, a long-suffering paragon whose arthritic knee had been replaced a month ago. As far as he was concerned, Lucy couldn’t hobble back to work too soon. Grace hadn’t grasped that the prime requirement of a gatekeeper was to keep the gate shut, at least to management consultants.

‘Love to,’ Harry lied. ‘But actually…’

‘Let me buy you a cappuccino at Kaffee Kirkus. Or an Americano, mocha, whatever you fancy. Did I mention the manager is a personal friend?’

Typical Wayne. He loved to be loved, but most of all, he loved to impress. Once upon a time, he’d practised as a solicitor, drifting from firm to firm until he finished up with Crusoe and Devlin. His career came to an end when he couldn’t face telling a client that he’d lost her case. He said he’d negotiated a handsome pay-out and sent her a cheque from the firm’s client account. He meant to take out a loan and refund the money, but that wasn’t the point. The moment Harry and his business partner Jim Crusoe found out, not even Wayne’s gift of the gab could save him. He resigned to save being sacked and struck off the Solicitors’ Roll.

But Wayne’s creative approach to the truth, so hazardous in the law, proved a blessing when he left town and reinvented himself as a consultant. By the time he returned to Liverpool, he drove a limited edition BMW, sported a black Tag Heuer chronograph and a Prada mobile that did everything except make afternoon tea. He was seldom seen without his state-of-the-art laptop and he dropped the names of celebrity chums like other folk scattered litter. The buzz word in the city was regeneration, and no one had regenerated his life more extravagantly than Wayne Saxelby. His new girlfriend Tamara had risen to stardom on Celebrities without Shame and rented one of the two penthouse flats at the top of John Newton House. Wayne had moved in, and although she’d disappeared to film in the Caribbean, there was no escaping him. The only option was to give in with good grace.

‘All right, lead the way.’

Wayne had acquired a mid-Atlantic twang since his lawyering days, along with a fashionably shaven head. He boasted that his tan came courtesy of a fortnight in the Maldives with Tamara, and his cream cotton suit was a Paul Smith limited edition. The braggadoccio was wasted on Harry, whose favourite holiday destination was Anglesey, and who confined his clothes shopping to a quick annual foray in the January sales.

The ground and first floors of John Newton House were reserved for retail and food and drink outlets. One unit was occupied by a Bavarian coffee shop, another by the property agents tasked with selling the upstairs flats; the rest was steel-shuttered silence. Half a dozen metal tables squatted on the pavement; Continental café culture had arrived here with a vengeance. Everywhere you looked there were coffee houses and swanky bistros. Lychee martinis were all the rage, and a restaurant near Lime Street sold the best sushi outside London. You might imagine you were walking the boulevards of Paris or the avenues of New York, if not for the squally showers and the wind blasting in from the Mersey. Soon global warming would take care of them too.

Harry sat outside while Wayne went in to be served. Across the road, a fat man was playing a penny whistle. What he lacked in musicianship, he made up for with ruddy-faced gusto. The moment he finished ‘Mull of Kintyre’, he launched into an onslaught upon the chordal complexities of ‘Alfie’.

What’s it all about?

Good question. Harry wished he knew the answer.

‘All right?’ Wayne asked as he returned with the drinks. ‘You were panting like a pensioner.’

‘Out of condition, that’s all.’

‘Nothing to do with the skinny guy dressed in black, then? Or that piece of paper you picked off the grass and stuffed in your pocket.’

‘Ah,’ Harry said. ‘You noticed.’

‘And the bloke who was about to kick your head in? Hard to miss.’

‘He used to be a client.’

Wayne winced. ‘You overcharged?’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘No offence, Harry, but with you, it always is.’ A gleam lit Wayne’s eye. ‘Risky to challenge him, if there’s bad blood between you. So what was so special about the scrap of paper you rescued?’

‘Nothing.’ Harry wasn’t in the mood to confide in a man with a mouth like the Mersey Tunnel. ‘I got my wires crossed, that’s all. The man in black is Tom Gunter. Last year I defended him on a charge of murder.’

‘And he’s walking the streets already? Is the early release scheme even more generous than we’ve been told?’

Harry tasted the coffee. ‘You might remember hearing about the case on the regional news. A woman who lived two doors away from Tom was stabbed to death. Her body was found in an alleyway. Three years earlier, Tom was convicted of breaking an ex-girlfriend’s jaw. This time, the police reckoned he’d propositioned his neighbour and took it badly when she turned him down. He and I argued about his defence and he instructed someone else.’

Wayne leant his elbows on the table and bent closer. His aftershave had a spicy tang. It probably cost more than Harry earned in a week.

‘Who got him off?’

‘A witness who placed Tom at the crime scene changed her mind. A week later she jetted to Disneyland with her kids, all expenses paid. Very nice for a single mum on benefit. Tom waltzed off without a stain on his character. If you don’t count his previous convictions, that is.’

‘So justice was cheated?’ Wayne shook his head. ‘You know something, Harry? That’s why I decided I couldn’t stomach the law any longer. It has nothing to do with justice.’

‘Unlike management consultancy?’

‘Trust me, you’re wasting your time with criminal law.’

‘I like a challenge. Defending habitual drunks on the basis they suffer habitual thirst.’

‘I’m not joking. I’ve taken a long, hard look at your business model. The practice needs to change.’

Wayne had come back into Harry’s life when he rang to offer a fortnight’s consultancy funded by a government grant. Jim Crusoe reckoned they had nothing to lose, but Harry wasn’t so sure. Wayne never missed a chance to remind them that quitting the law was the best career move he could have made.

‘Defending criminals is what I do.’

‘You could do something else.’

‘I handle divorce work too, don’t forget. County court cases. Accident claims.’

‘I mean something more ambitious than demanding compensation for people who trip over pavements. Don’t you ever yearn to do something fresh?’ Wayne gestured expansively and nearly knocked over Harry’s mug. ‘Your life can change in a moment.’

Harry pictured Tom Gunter, stroking the knife’s blade. ‘Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.’

‘You know what they say, Harry? Feel the fear and do it anyway.’

‘Moving office was bad enough. What if I want my life to stay the same?’

‘You’re kidding.’

Harry frowned. ‘It’s not so terrible.’

‘We all want something more. Come on, admit it. Where’s the fun in defending dyed-in-the-wool rogues and trying to persuade the judge that a fourth generation burglar is one of God’s lost children?’

‘None of my clients deserves to be stigmatised as guilty. It’s needlessly discriminatory. I like to think of them as…differently innocent.’

Wayne tutted. ‘A sense of humour is all very well, but it doesn’t bring down the overdraft.’

‘All right, if you want the truth. No two days are alike in this job, that’s the appeal. Tomorrow I’m before the city coroner. Representing the son of the deceased at an inquest.’

‘What hourly rate will you charge? Please tell me you didn’t quote a fixed fee.’

‘Aled Borth reckons he was duped out of what little money he was expecting to inherit. He may work in the movie business…’

‘What?’

‘…but we’re not talking Steven Spielberg or Martin Scorsese. Aled plays the Mighty Wurlitzer at the Waterloo Alhambra. The cinema dates back to the age of silent movies, but these days it’s run by a charity.’

Wayne shook his head. ‘Crusoe and Devlin aren’t a charity, Harry. You need to apply your mind to profit and loss, debtor days and cash flow.’

‘In the small hours of the morning, I think of little else.’ Harry wiped his mouth and got to his feet. ‘Thanks for the coffee. Catch you another time.’

Lou the concierge was still in conference with his wrinkled chum as Harry waited to take the lift back upstairs. Pan pipes fluted from concealed speakers, the bland music spreading across the foyer like mayonnaise. Facing the welcome desk was a huge plasma screen television. A DVD played in a never-ending loop, featuring exquisitely groomed young architects with public school accents who conjured up virtual images of a futuristic Liverpool. Harry doubted if they’d ever set foot north of Watford. When they extolled his home town, he scarcely recognised the warts-and-all city he loved.

‘Vibrant sustainability…construction initiatives…catalyst for economic growth…’

He hurried up to the office, keen to talk to Kay and find out what she’d meant to say to him. Maybe she knew who had dropped off the note about Midsummer’s Eve. But she was nowhere to be seen.

In reception, he spoke to Sylvia, Jim Crusoe’s secretary, who doubled as their office manager.

‘Is Kay around?’

Sylvia was a softly spoken woman in her late forties who had worked for Harry and Jim Crusoe since they’d first set up the firm together. No crisis ever bruised her calm good humour and Harry sometimes puzzled over what they’d done to deserve such loyalty. It certainly wasn’t down to how much they paid her.

‘Taking an interest in plant care, all of a sudden?’

‘Are you questioning my green credentials?’

‘Of course. You’re a serial killer of spider plants and mother-in-law’s tongue. Kay said goodbye ten minutes ago. She’d finished here and was off to her next job.’

‘Did she leave any message?’

Sylvia raised her eyebrows and he guessed she thought he’d taken a shine to Kay. She was a would-be matchmaker, determined to pair Harry off with a woman more reliable than those he’d been mixed up with in the past. The snag was, reliability didn’t turn him on.

‘What message did you expect?’

‘She said she wanted to have a word. Maybe about Tom Gunter, I don’t know.’

‘Tom Gunter?’ Sylvia’s grimace made clear what she thought about Kay’s boyfriend. ‘Sorry, she didn’t say anything to me. How about you, Suzanne?’

The receptionist shook her head. ‘By the way, I meant to tell you. That Aled Borth rang. He was due here at four o’clock, but he’s cancelled the meeting.’

‘Did he speak to Grace?’

‘No need,’ the girl snapped. She detested Harry’s new secretary and never communicated with her if she could avoid it.

‘But the inquest into his mother’s death is tomorrow. We were going to discuss the evidence.’

‘He said he didn’t want to see you, after all.’

She made it sound like a good decision. Harry had meant to talk Aled Borth through the witness statements taken by the coroner’s officer. He was desperate to persuade his client not to turn the inquest into a fiasco by accusing an innocent man of murder.

‘Surely…’

‘He’s coming in tomorrow at nine sharp before you both set off for court, so what’s the problem? I said it was fine if he wanted to cancel. No point in running up costs if there’s no need. Client care, you know?’

She beamed in triumph. At least she was cheap, and on a good day, her Scouse wit was sharper than anything on the telly. For Harry and his partner, employing Suzanne had become a bad habit, like drinking more than was good for you or supporting a football team that never repaid your devotion. She’d long ago become part of the furniture at Crusoe and Devlin – and now she’d outlasted the furniture. The old desks and chairs would never pass muster in slickly refurbished John Newton House. A fortnight ago, they’d been sold for firewood.

Back in his room, he propped his feet on the brand new desk. John Newton House was named after an eighteenth-century slaveship master who saw the light after being appointed tidal surveyor for the Port of Liverpool. He became a clergyman and writer of hymns, including the one which gave Amazing Grace her nickname. The building dated back to the age of King and Kaiser, when Liverpool was second city of the Empire and gateway to the New World. Once the headquarters of a long-sunk shipping company, it remained for decades a soot-blackened relic of past glories. The wind whistled through broken windows and rain seeped in through holes in the roof. It was supposed to be a listed building, but the list probably consisted of blots on the waterfront.

But that was then. Once Liverpool was named European Capital of Culture – eat your hearts out, Milan and Barcelona – investment flooded in. John Newton House had become a landmark in a mini-Manhattan skyline, at least according to the agent’s brochure. A developer ripped out its guts to create office and retail space, coupled with luxury apartments on the top floors.

Harry knew he should be grateful for his corner office, with its panoramic views of river and town, but it felt as homely as a hotel lobby. Crusoe and Devlin had moved from a block resembling the Leaning Tower of Pisa minus the charm. Last week a demolition crew had reduced it to rubble. It would be foolish to say he preferred its cramped and cobwebbed ambience. Jim Crusoe would never forgive him. And yet…

As he closed his eyes for a moment, the door swung open and his partner marched in. Jim was a broad-shouldered man whose confident stride never became a self-important swagger. He considered Harry’s indolent pose and unleashed a theatrical sigh.

‘Taking a well-earned break?’

‘Power-napping,’ Harry said. ‘Two or three naps a day increase production, well-being and longevity. It must be true, I read it in a self-help book Wayne Saxelby lent to me.’

‘You were asleep.’

‘Blue-sky thinking. Trying to see the big picture. You were right, these management consultants know a thing or two.’

Jim’s eyes swept over the jumble of files and papers scattered over desk and floor and came to rest on a tottering pile of back issues of The Law Society’s Gazette, still in their virgin, shrink-wrapped state.

‘We agreed a clear desk policy. Touch each piece of paper only once?’

‘It’s not a mess, just an eclectic design scheme.’

‘Shouldn’t you catch up on your reading? Keep up to date with what’s happening in the profession?’

‘True.’ Harry gazed sadly at the magazines. ‘Trouble is, the Gazette isn’t quite the gripping read it used to be.’

‘We need to talk about practice development. Wayne says we should give up on legal aid. You can reinvent yourself as a specialist in civil liberties. Harry the human rights lawyer: it has a ring to it.’

Harry groaned. He’d understood business consultants to be people who spent endless time and money writing down what you told them and then regurgitating it in jargon-ridden reports to be filed in the waste paper basket. Any hope of relying on Wayne to preserve the status quo was misplaced. Since he’d blipped off Crusoe and Devlin’s radar, Wayne had metamorphosed from clueless solicitor into a dynamic evangelist for change. He fizzed with energy and ideas; every time he consulted his laptop, he came up with something new. Clear desk policies were only the start. Soon management-speak and documented processes would encroach on every aspect of Harry’s working life like Japanese knotweed, smothering him with bureaucracy.

‘Bloody Wayne. When I heard about his new career and glamorous girlfriend, I thought he must be suffering from delusions. Now it looks like pure unvarnished grandeur.’

‘Don’t be negative. He was at pains to assure me he isn’t a seagull consultant.’

‘A what?’

‘Someone who flies in, craps over everything and then flies out again.’

‘I’m not reassured. Let’s talk another time.’

‘All right. I’ll schedule a meeting.’

Harry rolled his eyes. Another shortcoming of their upgraded computer system. Anyone could trespass into your diary or your email inbox. The tyranny of technology. Your life wasn’t your own any more.

‘If we must.’

‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘Somebody wants me dead.’

Jim was as inscrutable as a warrior from First Emperor Qin’s Terracotta Army.

‘So what’s new?’

He was right, that was the scary thing. While Jim scrutinised the black-edged message, as though trying to decipher the Enigma Code, Harry mulled over the people who might bear him a grudge. In this line of work, you couldn’t help treading on toes. Nothing personal, he assured himself. But then again.

Jim tossed the slip of paper back on to the desk.

‘You may be looking peaky, but I still say the report of your demise is exaggerated.’

‘You’re all heart. Who could have sent it?’

Once upon a time, Jim had grown his hair long and shaggy, and every time he shook his head, the locks fell to mask his eyes. Now he had much less hair, and not simply due to the passage of time. His new barber was as ruthless and expensive as a high class hit man.

‘Face it, Harry. The list must be endless.’

‘Actually, I liked you better when you were unsuccessful.’ Harry cast his eyes around the bare white walls. One of these days he’d pin up his framed posters of Casablanca and North by North West. ‘Before you hit the big time.’

‘If I’m that successful, why am I still in partnership with you?’

‘You don’t have long to wait to be rid of me.’ Harry pointed to the sheet. ‘Midsummer’s Eve.’

‘Doesn’t say which year.’

‘Always look on the bright side, huh?’

‘Listen, someone’s winding you up. Don’t lose sleep over an out-of-season April fool. Just make sure you’ve paid your insurance premiums and written your will.’

Harry ran his hand through his hair. At least he still had plenty of it, though lately he’d discovered several strands of grey. Soon he’d have to stop kidding himself it was simply due to the stress of defending the indefensible. The cracking of his knees when he ran upstairs wasn’t simply caused by a touch of damp in the air. He was getting older, though he wasn’t confident he’d truly grown up.

‘The envelope must have been delivered by someone close by. But Suzanne didn’t notice anyone.’

‘Maybe it came from someone who works for us.’

Harry shook his head. ‘Can’t see that.’

‘You haven’t upset Amazing Grace?’

‘She wouldn’t do something like this.’

As soon as he said it, he wondered why he was so sure. The secretary was their newest recruit. He hardly knew her.

‘Have you asked Lou if he spotted anyone suspicious?’

‘Old Hawkeye, are you serious?’

‘Not really.’

Jim loosened his tie. It was made of silk and discreetly patterned; long gone the days when he favoured psychedelic designs and polyester. His dress sense had transformed since his wife’s death after a short and terrible battle with kidney cancer. After six months of numb denial, he’d moved in with a woman young enough to be his daughter. He’d lost weight, and his suits these days were tailor-made. Not like the shabby tweeds he’d favoured when a stone and a half heavier.

‘So what’s special about Midsummer’s Eve?’

Spreading his arms, Harry said, ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

Aled Borth might have cancelled their meeting, but Harry supposed he ought to look at the papers before the inquest opened in the morning. The Liverpool coroner, Ceri Hussain, was legendary for her efficiency and she expected lawyers appearing in her court to be fully prepared. Besides, he wanted to give a good impression. One evening a few weeks earlier, he’d fallen into conversation with her at a lawyers’ networking event and they’d finished up having a drink together. She was recently widowed and, he guessed, as lonely as he had been after the death of his wife Liz. They hadn’t met up again. But you never knew.

He picked up the phone. ‘Grace, any idea where the Borth file might be?’

‘Oh, sorry! I meant to put it back in the cabinet last night and… I’ll bring it in right away.’

She’d put down the phone before he could say there was no rush and within a minute she was in the room, thrusting the buff folder into his hand with stammered apologies.

‘No problem, don’t worry.’

She gave him a hesitant smile. A slim woman in her thirties, with dark waist-length hair, high cheekbones and anxious eyes. Her skin was pale, and the slits in her sleeveless black cotton dress revealed glimpses of white legs. The magenta lipstick matched her nails.

‘Would there be anything else?’

‘Thanks, that’s fine.’

The door closed behind her, shutting out the muskiness of her perfume. Grace had been with him for three weeks and he still couldn’t make her out. She didn’t wear a wedding ring and dropped no hints about her private life. At lunchtime she would be hunched over The Road Less Travelled rather than a word puzzle in the Daily Mirror or a sex-and-shopping blockbuster. You couldn’t imagine her joining the girls who sunbathed out in the church gardens. She seemed to have nothing in common with the other secretaries, whose conversation – in the bosses’ hearing – revolved around the shortcomings of the men in their lives, and their next holiday in Spain.

He couldn’t settle to the chore of ploughing through the Borth file. At least he had an excuse. He sneaked another glance at the crumpled announcement of his death. The print and layout resembled a facsimile clipping from the Liverpool Echo. Someone had taken the trouble to make it look like the real thing.

Might as well dig out the newspaper for comparison. He’d bought an early edition on his way back from court. The vendor had bellowed about a body on a beach, but Harry’s mind was elsewhere. He was lost in wonder that he’d talked the magistrates into giving that career car thief a community sentence. He couldn’t claim too much credit; the lad had the authorities’ zealous pursuit of law and order to thank. The prisons were crammed to the rafters with recidivists paid to play Scrabble as a means of keeping the peace, so there was no room for anyone else. Chances were, his client was halfway home to Runcorn now, scattering traffic cones on Speke Boulevard in someone else’s Saab.

He pulled the Echo out of his briefcase and thumbed through the classified advertisements. The In Memoriam section ran to six columns of sorrow, without mention of his name. Of course not, it would be absurd. Today wasn’t even Midsummer’s Eve.

As he folded up the newspaper, the front page headline screamed at him.

WOMAN MURDERED AT WATERLOO.

CHAPTER THREE

Some men were changed by murder, some men were suspected of murder, for some men murder was all in a day’s work. With Harry Devlin, it was a mixture of the three. Years ago, his wife Liz had been stabbed to death and he’d stayed in the frame until he uncovered the truth. Since then, murder’s cruel finality had obsessed him. Whatever Wayne Saxelby said, even twenty years in the legal profession hadn’t killed off his yearning for justice. More than once, he’d come face to face with murderers, determined to confront them with their guilt. But he’d made himself a promise – leave detection to the detectives. He’d only bought the Echo to find out about this goal-hungry Italian striker the Reds had signed. The news story was a distraction. Yet he had to read it, couldn’t help himself.

The remains of a young woman had been discovered on the beach at Waterloo, just up the coast. Someone walking a dog at daybreak had stumbled across the body and raised the alarm. A detective superintendent described the crime as shocking and savage and said it was vital for the perpetrator to be caught before he struck again. He appealed for anyone in the vicinity of the beach the previous evening to come forward as a matter of urgency. It was too early, he said, to rule out the possibility that this death was linked to the killing of Denise Onuoha.

Denise came from New Brighton on the other side of the Mersey. A seaside resort that for years struggled to compete with Margate, let alone Marbella. First, the Tower was burnt down, then the pier went, finally they ripped out the open air pool that Harry and his mates swam in as kids. Lately New Brighton had checked in for regeneration therapy, but Denise’s murder hadn’t done any favours for its tourist appeal. Her remains were discovered on a tide-washed strip of beach below Egremont Promenade. There was enough left to make it clear that she hadn’t died of natural causes.

In the absence of a quick arrest, the murder was soon relegated to a line among reports of bust-ups in the city council. The snap of Denise was fuzzy and out of date, but Harry recalled a pretty, dark-haired girl in school blouse and blazer with buck teeth and the eager-to-please smile of a contestant in a talent show. She was eighteen years old and said to have dreamt of a career on the catwalk. The reports spoke of her as bubbly and fun-loving, a piece of journalese that covered a multitude of sins.

Harry had heard gossip about the Onuoha case over at The Latte of the Law, a swish café opposite the courts in Derby Square. Rumour merchants insisted that Denise’s body had been mutilated in some bizarre fashion, prompting prurient speculation over countless espressos and blueberry muffins. What astonished Harry was that the full story hadn’t leaked out. Some insider usually talked. Murder wasn’t unknown in Liverpool, for all the statistics proving how safe the city was compared to supposed havens of tranquillity. The police would never keep things so tight without a good reason. There must be something out of the ordinary about the killing of Denise Onuoha.

And now another young woman had been found dead on a beach.

Another life wasted, another corpse left to moulder in the wet and wind. At the mercy of the sea, prey to tiny creatures with cruel appetites.

How could you do that to a fellow human being? He would never understand.

The story in the Echo ran to four terse paragraphs; the media conference must have finished minutes before the early edition went to press. Harry knew that if the police were unsure of a connection with the Onuoha case, they would never risk sparking hysteria. Something must link the killings; perhaps the murderer had a particular signature. Any time now, the city would echo with the newspaper vendors’ hoarse cry.

‘Serial killer on the loose!’

And people walking the streets would be shocked and frightened, but excited too.

Read all about it…who could resist?

‘Serial killer on the loose!’

‘Any preferences for funeral arrangements?’ Jim poked his head round the door to say goodnight. ‘Flowers, donations? Just in case, I mean?’

‘Piss off,’ Harry said amiably.

‘Remember, old son. That which doesn’t kill us simply postpones the inevitable.’ Jim nodded towards the Borth file. ‘Doing plenty of spadework for the inquest, then?’

‘I like to be prepared.’

‘Liar. I suppose you want to make a good impression in front of the coroner?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Come on, Harry. You fancy the pants off her, don’t you?’

‘Ceri Hussain?’

Jim tapped the side of his nose. ‘I’m not blaming you. Very attractive woman.’

‘She’s the coroner!’

‘No need to sound so indignant. Anyone would think I accused you of peering up the Queen’s skirt. I wasn’t the only one who saw you sloping off to the bar with her after that Legal Group meeting at the Adelphi.’

‘We had a quick drink, that’s all.’

‘Oh yeah? Mind, she’s a bit intense. You’d be good for her.’

‘As light relief?’

‘Why not? She spends her working life deciding how people came to die. Can’t be a barrel of laughs.’

‘The drink was a one-off. I didn’t even ask for her phone number.’

‘She’s not long since lost her husband.’ Jim’s grin wavered for a moment. He knew about coping with the death of a spouse. Though his wife, unlike Harry’s, and Ceri’s husband, had died of natural causes. ‘Makes sense to take it slowly.’

‘I’m not taking it any way. This is just your fevered imagination.’

Jim smirked. ‘Suit yourself.’

Harry put up two fingers as the door swung behind his partner. Nothing pleased him more than to see Jim putting the ravages of bereavement behind him. Carmel was doing him good. But his relentless affability was becoming a pain.

He switched off his computer and wandered to the window. Across the road loomed the Liver Building, its twin clock towers topped by giant birds resembling malevolent cormorants, each clutching a sprig of seaweed in its beak. One faced out to sea, supposedly watching for sailors’ safe return, the other gazed towards the city, checking to see whether the pubs were open. People said that if ever the Liver Birds were to mate and fly away, Liverpool would cease to exist. Just as well they kept their backs turned to each other.

A faint noise from outside caught his ear. The grumble of vacuum cleaners had long since died down. He strained to listen. Was someone sobbing?

He poked his head out and looked up and down the corridor. The air was heavy with the tang of floor polish, pungent enough to make your eyes water. No one was in sight. He listened.

Then it came again. A low, insistent sound. A young woman crying, he was sure of it. To both left and right, the corridor zigzagged drunkenly, an elaborate designer touch to justify high rents. The idea was to relieve the monotony of long straight lines, so at regular intervals the corridors veered around kitchen areas, walk-in cupboards and spaces housing photocopiers, laser printers and other essentials of modern office life. As a result, you couldn’t see far whichever way you looked.

The woman must be one of the night cleaners. Harry had glimpsed several of them since arriving here, a ghostly troop who wielded their mops like weapons. Often they chatted together in a foreign language he didn’t recognise. The sensible thing was to keep his distance. Or better still, sneak off in the other direction and get away for the night. Let her sort herself out, whoever she was. But she might be in pain. If someone had hurt her…

He took a few steps in the direction of the lifts and called softly, ‘Are you all right?’

Stupid question, but he didn’t know what else to say.

Silence.

‘It’s Harry Devlin. What’s the matter?’

He could hear sniffling, but she didn’t reply. With a couple of strides, he rounded the bend in the corridor. The door to the kitchen was open. He moved forward, so that he could look into the room.

A young woman he’d never seen before was standing between the sink and the water cooler. He wasn’t sure he’d ever encountered anyone looking quite so forlorn. She had short blonde hair, a pale tear-stained face and a handkerchief bunched in a small fist. It was as if misery had washed all the colour out of her. Even her linen overall was plain white, except for three tiny blue Cs on the breast. He recognised the logo: Culture City Cleaners.

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Nothing.’ A local accent, for once. ‘I’m fine.’

He thrust his hands in his pockets. At least the woman in white had answered. It was a start.

‘Hey, I don’t think so.’

‘I didn’t mean to disturb you. It’s nothing, believe me.’

He took another pace towards her. If nothing else, twenty years in the Liverpool courts had taught him not to fret about stating the obvious.

‘You’re upset.’

She dipped her head. Her hair was a mess of tangles. Dark roots showed.

‘I cry easily.’

‘Can I make you a cup of tea? It usually helps.’

A pause. ‘You can’t help, believe me.’

‘But…’

‘I have to go!’

She brushed past him and hurried down the corridor, sandals clacking on the wood-block floor. He watched until she disappeared out of sight, leaving a scent of room freshener in the air. A tang of cinnamon to remember her by.

The ground level of John Newton House was deserted. From the lift, Harry saw the welcome desk was vacant, the bank of CCTV screens unwatched. The only hint of 24/7 security was the blinking red eye of the alarm. The plasma screen was blank and the pan pipes had fallen silent. All he could hear was a low electric hum and the eternal gush of the stainless steel waterfall. Black leather tub chairs formed a crescent facing the lifts. He’d never seen anyone sitting in them. Prints of modern artworks covered the walls, frantic splashes of red and yellow and green. With the interior lights dimmed, the leaves of giant palms cast spiky shadows. Through the curtain of foliage he glimpsed the world beyond the locked double doors. The Strand was a blinding pool of light.

He stepped into the foyer. The carpet smelt new, its soft clutch was like quicksand. The desk was light Scandinavian wood, vast enough to make a colossus of industry feel like a midget. On the wall, a shiny brass plaque listed the three small businesses resident in John Newton House. An image flickering on the surveillance screens caught his eye. He sneaked behind the desk to take a closer look.

One camera was trained on the entrance to the underground car park. The developers had carved it out of an ancient basement and only the priciest apartments in the building came with the right to a space, though until they were all sold there was room to spare. The BMW belonged to Wayne Saxelby; the only surprise was its lack of personalised number plates. But Harry focused on a sporty yellow Mercedes. Or rather, the woman clambering out of the driver’s seat and fiddling in her bag for a key.

Juliet May.

Juliet, here? Impossible.

His heart thudded and he slammed his eyes shut, but when he opened them again, she was still in view. Striding towards the exit, bag tucked under her arm. Head held high, eyes gazing straight ahead. She moved like a woman who knew precisely where she was going. In the years since they’d last met, her red hair had been restyled and acquired blonde highlights, but it was Juliet, all right. The contours of her body were as familiar as if he’d embraced her only yesterday. In his mind he heard her gasps and cries when they were together in bed and she let herself go.

He hurried to the back door and let himself out into the courtyard. The brightness dazzled him and he shaded his eyes. The exit door from the car park swung open and Juliet May emerged. When she saw him, she stopped in her tracks and did an extravagant double take. Yet her gaze was steady, as if she wasn’t in truth so surprised to see him.

‘Harry.’ He’d always loved her voice, cool and smooth as the touch of her skin. ‘It’s been a long time.’

He nodded, not sure what to say. She looked different somehow, and it wasn’t just her new haircut. The lips, that was it. They were bigger than when he’d last kissed her, as if some cosmetic surgeon had got carried away with the collagen implants. Why had she bothered?

‘I suppose it was only a question of time,’ she murmured.

‘We’ve moved our office here. The bulldozers have flattened Fenwick Court.’

‘I saw your firm’s name on the sign at reception.’

‘You’re visiting someone?’

Her smile tantalised. ‘No, you and I are neighbours.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I live here, of course.’

His heart missed a beat. ‘In one of the flats?’

‘What would you expect, the car park? I’m in one of the penthouses on the top floor. There’s a balcony, with wonderful views. Sometimes I sit out in St Nick’s Gardens, when they aren’t packed with office girls eating their sandwiches. But it’s not the same as lazing high above the city. I need to find time for a bit of sunbathing. Want to know my guilty secret? My tan comes courtesy of the sun centre in Rumford Street.’

She pretended to sniff with self-pity. She was slimmer than ever; at a distance, she might have passed for thirty. He didn’t know much about fashion, but he guessed the grey business suit and matching handbag were her favourite, Donna Karan. And she was talking rapidly, not letting him get a word in edgeways. A tactic he recognised, to buy time while she gathered her thoughts. Not that he wanted to get a word in edgeways. It was enough to drink in the sight of her. Better take care to avoid intoxication.

‘I heard about you and Casper.’

He didn’t say he was sorry her marriage had broken up; she wouldn’t have believed him. Her ex-husband was an entrepreneur whose charity fundraising made gossip columnists drool, and whose wealth had politicians queueing up to trade honours for donations to party funds. What nobody dared mention was how Casper May made his very first million. He was a hard man and people who got in his way found themselves crushed. Literally, since he retained an interest in a scrap-yard near the river. One business rival was rumoured to have been fed to a metal-shearing machine, though the official line was that he’d skipped to Spain to escape the taxman. By sleeping with Juliet, Harry had taken his life in his hands. The madness of lust, how else to explain it? Splitting up with her had saved his skin.

‘It was bound to happen. Didn’t you once tell me that yourself?’

‘You should have dumped him years ago.’

‘You know something, Harry? I never did dump him. There’s no point lying to you; he found this kid, a waitress working in a club he owns. Face of a fourteen-year-old and heart of a whore. After all his affairs, he did the one thing I never expected. He fell in love.’

‘It won’t last.’

Casper May must be mad too, he didn’t know when he was well off. Juliet studied him for a moment, before breaking into another smile that revealed perfect teeth. Even more perfect than before, like the delicate shape of her nose and the jaunty tilt of her breasts. She’d once told him that she didn’t intend to grow old without a fight.

‘You still wear that puzzled look. As well as permanently crooked neckwear.’

She bent close to straighten his tie. Soft hair tickled his face. He shrugged away his embarrassment, prayed that his face wasn’t reddening.

‘People don’t change.’

‘That’s a depressing observation.’

‘True, though.’

‘Not of me, Harry. I’ve changed, haven’t you noticed?’

‘You look as good as ever,’ he said carefully.

‘You’re too polite. Nature’s had a bit of help, I don’t mind admitting. Though the lip implants didn’t work. An allergic reaction, I’m taking the clinic to court. But I wanted a new beginning. Please don’t be offended that I didn’t ask you to take up my case. Or handle the divorce.’

‘It wouldn’t have been a good idea.’

‘I mean, we did agree on a clean break.’

He nodded. When the time came for them to part, they’d made a promise to each other. No recriminations and no further contact. At the time he’d feared he wouldn’t be able to honour the bargain. But he’d stayed strong.

‘Actually, I met someone else. His name is Jude. No jokes about obscurity, please. Only twenty-seven, but quite a hunk. He has a flat in the Colonnades, a stone’s throw from your place. We keep our own bolt-holes, though I spend nights there when he isn’t away working. He’s an actor, he’s had a few small parts in films.’

‘Am I allowed jokes about small parts?’

She grinned. ‘Don’t provoke me. Come to think of it, you may have seen Jude in Coronation Street.’

‘Must have been an episode I missed.’

‘I’d forgotten you’re so sarky. No need to be nervous. I haven’t breathed a word to Casper about you and me.’

‘I guessed not. Otherwise I’d have been buried under the foundations of the Paradise Project long ago.’

Her eyes sparkled. ‘We all need a little danger in our lives.’

‘I’m too old for danger.’

‘Casper’s very respectable these days. His company’s a major sponsor of culture in the city. But you look as though you could do with some fun. How are things?’

Should he mention the warning of death on Midsummer’s Eve? Perhaps not.

‘Same as ever.’

‘I wanted to say, I’m so sorry about your brother.’