An hour later he was sitting at a corner table in the Ensenada opposite Jim Crusoe, who was raising a glass of Moet and wishing that every week brought a new Waltergate.
‘Here’s to justice,’ said Jim. ‘Long may it miscarry.’
‘As long as the fees are good?’ asked Harry mischievously.
‘A man’s got to eat,’ said his partner, eyeing his steak with enthusiasm. ‘Besides, I know our social conscience is safe in your care. I suppose this Sefton Park case is going to be another of your pro bono publico enquiries, is it?’
On the way to the restaurant, Harry had regaled him with an account of his conversations with Miller and what he knew of the Carole Jeffries case. ‘I’m thinking as much of Edwin Smith’s mum as of my own curiosity. She paid Cyril handsomely for poor reward. If her son now turns out to have been innocent all along, he deserves to have his name cleared.’
‘Are you thinking of a posthumous pardon?’
Harry spread his arms, and almost sent a passing waiter flying. ‘Why not? The poor idiot has spent thirty years being considered guilty of a crime he may not have committed — assuming that this Renata woman wasn’t pulling the wool over Miller’s eyes when she assured him Edwin couldn’t have been guilty. I wish I knew how to get in touch with her. Perhaps the best idea is to follow Miller’s example and advertise.’
‘That won’t be necessary.’
‘Do you have a better suggestion?’
‘As a matter of fact, I do.’ Jim reached down for the briefcase he had brought along from the office. ‘If only you’d let me get a word in edgeways earlier, I might have put you out of your misery. Look at this.’
He took out the red file Miller had handed Harry about his personal affairs and drew from it a single sheet of paper. ‘I take it you didn’t study the documents our client passed to you?’
‘I glanced at the summary, but I didn’t trouble with the rest of the paperwork. It’s more your line of country than mine.’
‘Not necessarily.’ Jim passed him the sheet. ‘When I was working on the will, I couldn’t make head nor tail of this stuff. None of it had any bearing on Miller’s instructions about his estate. But I think you may find it useful.’
‘Too right,’ breathed Harry as he stared at the sheet. It was headed CONTACTS and contained a list of names, telephone numbers and addresses in Miller’s immaculate script. They were names that had begun to mean a good deal to him: Vera Smith, Kathleen Jeffries, Ray Brill, Clive Doxey, Benny Frederick, Shirley Titchard, Vincent Deysbrook — and Renata Grierson.
‘I don’t know how it got mixed up with the financial papers,’ said Jim between mouthfuls of steak, ‘unless Miller meant to pass it to you surreptitiously.’
‘Nothing so melodramatic. I remember now, he dropped his files when we met in Sefton Park and several sheets spilled out. He must have put this one back in the wrong file.’ He grinned and took another sip of champagne. ‘Wonderful! Maybe I’m now a step ahead of the character who nicked the rest of Miller’s papers on the case.’
‘Watch your step. If you’re right in thinking he killed Carole Jeffries — and maybe Miller for good measure — he won’t take kindly to your sticking your nose in.’
‘No need for you to worry. Don’t forget our cross-insurance.’
Jim wiped his mouth on the back of his napkin. ‘I live in fear that the small print may exclude death in the course of detective work.’
‘Anyway, I’m far from certain that he did murder Miller. I need to find out what the post mortem revealed.’
‘I’ll ask for you if you like. I’m ringing that policewoman who came round to the burglary — whatshername, Lynn — to find out if they have any leads, so I can progress our claim. I could ask her if she can find out.’
‘Thanks, but there’s no need. I’ll speak to the constable I met at Everton. He ought to be willing to talk to me. I was the late Ernest Miller’s legal representative, remember.’
As soon as he got back to the office he called the number Miller had listed for Renata Grierson. The phone was answered on the second ring. ‘Is that Mrs Grierson?’
‘Who wants her?’ asked a woman’s voice at the other end of the telephone line. The accent was broad Scouse, the tone provocative.
‘This is Harry Devlin.’
‘I don’t care if it’s hare krishna, love. What are you after?’
‘I’d like to talk to you, Mrs Grierson. It’s quite urgent.’
‘You’re getting me all excited, love, but what’s it all about?’
No point in beating about the bush. ‘Thirty years ago, you knew a young man called Edwin Smith who was convicted of murder.’
At once the woman became cautious. ‘And what if I did? Not that I’m admitting anything, mind.’
‘I’m not a policeman, I’m not asking you to admit a thing. I’d just like a word, that’s all. Today, if it’s convenient. If not, maybe tomorrow.’
‘What’s the hurry after thirty years? And why all the sudden interest after such a long time?’
‘You’ve already talked to a man called Miller about Edwin, haven’t you? He told me you had responded to his advertisement, claiming Edwin could not have strangled Carole Jeffries.’
‘Are you a friend of this Miller?’
‘I’m his solicitor. Or should I say, I was.’
‘Sacked you, has he?’
‘He’s dead.’
After a shocked pause, Renata Grierson said, ‘Dead? He can’t be. I only rang him on Thursday. He said he wanted to fix up a meeting with me.’
‘Don’t hold your breath waiting for his call. I almost fell over his body when I called at his house. He’d collapsed in his own front room and now he’s dead, I feel I owe it to him to find out more about the Sefton Park case.’
She snorted down the line. ‘What’s your real interest, Mr Devlin?’
‘Miller persuaded me that Edwin Smith was done a grave injustice. If that’s true, it ought to be put right.’
‘Edwin died a long time ago, Mr Devlin.’
‘Justice doesn’t have a sell-by date,’ said Harry, thinking as he spoke that it was worryingly easy to become the self-important lawyer of a thousand tired caricatures. If he didn’t watch out, he’d start spewing out soundbites like a poor man’s Clive Doxey. Less grandly, he added, ‘Will you spare me half an hour?’
She took a deep breath. ‘I was just getting ready to go out to work this evening, as it happens. I work in an Egyptian restaurant in the city centre, a place called Farouk’s. You can see me afterwards, if you like.’
‘What time do you finish?’
‘No fixed time, but usually late. Come over and have a meal first, if you like. The food’s one of Liverpool’s best-kept secrets, you’ll thank me for tipping you the wink.’
His next task was to chase up the result of Miller’s post mortem. He always found contacting the police by phone a tedious business and was frequently tempted to make every message a 999 call, but eventually he collected the information he wanted.
The pathologist was sure that Miller had died following and as a consequence of a severe asthma attack. Time of death was never easy to fix, but early evening of Saturday was probably favourite. Although he had cut his head when he had fallen, the gash had not been serious. There was no clear indication as to the trigger for the attack; it could have had any one of a score of causes. It was a straightforward matter, Harry was assured. No suspicious circumstances at all.
‘Then let me mention one or two. Mrs Hegg, my client’s neighbour, heard someone call next door on Saturday evening… No, she doesn’t know who it was, she heard knocking whilst she was on the phone and thinks she heard the visitor being let in. And some important papers appear to be missing from my client’s study… No, nothing else, no money has gone. But the papers relate to a crime my client was interested in… thirty years ago, although…’
The best he could do was extract a promise that a statement would be taken from Gloria Hegg. He had no illusions: there was enough crime in present-day Merseyside to occupy the forces of law and order, and the assumed loss of one file of documents about a case dating back to 1964 was hardly likely to call for all police leave to be stopped and the drafting-in of reinforcements specially trained in investigating miscarriages of justice.
As he put the receiver down, he reflected that Jock’s guess as to what had occurred at Miller’s house on Saturday was probably not far from the truth. Miller had not been murdered and the burglary of the office could be unconnected. Unless Ray Brill was the one who had feared that Cyril Tweats’ file might reveal a secret he was desperate to hide.
Back in the flat that evening, Harry switched on the television whilst he changed in readiness for his trip to Farouk’s, hoping to catch the regional news. It was being read by a plump redhead whose Mancunian vowels rolled as if she were auditioning for a part in Hobson’s Choice.
‘…who had been the head of the South West Lancashire Major Enquiries Squad for the past nine years resigned today after a record compensation payment for wrongful arrest was agreed in the case of Liverpool man Kevin Walter.’
As she summarised the main points of the case, the picture showed Kevin and Jeannie outside the Law Courts, grinning at a forest of microphones. At their side was Patrick Vaulkhard, permitting himself a sly smile of self-congratulation. Harry, no expert in media relations, had managed to find a place just out of camera shot.
‘No money can ever make up for what my Kevin has suffered,’ Jeannie announced to the camera, ‘but all we want to do now is to get away for a quiet holiday and start to pick up the pieces of our shattered lives.’
It was a quote, Harry supposed, from the serialisation of her life story which would begin in one of the tabloids the next day. He did not expect to be buying a copy.
‘Is this a good day for English justice?’ a reporter asked Vaulkhard.
‘Justice?’ demanded the barrister. A caption across the bottom of the screen identified him for the viewers’ benefit. ‘A man loses his liberty and the people responsible have to be taken to court before they offer compensation even remotely sufficient to recognise the wrong they have done? Where is the justice in that?’
‘You can’t put a price on freedom,’ said Jeannie.
The redhead reappeared and said, ‘Tonight Sir Clive Doxey, the President of MOJO, the Miscarriages Of Justice Organisation, added his weight to calls for tighter regulation of police interrogation methods.’
A silver-haired man sitting in front of a bookcase full of imposing leather-bound volumes started speaking about unscrupulous police methods and how the case illustrated the need to preserve a suspect’s right of silence.
‘…national disgrace… insist upon an urgent review… courage of Mrs Walter…’
Harry paid scant attention. He was reflecting that it was a small world. What would Sir Clive say if it were suggested to him that Edwin Smith might have been a victim of a miscarriage of justice even graver than the one that had befallen Kevin Walter? Would he use his muscle to press for some form of enquiry into the old case? Or was this one time when he might be content to let bygones be bygones?
Farouk’s was tucked away down an alley that led off Victoria Street. The fascia of the building was as inconspicuous as its location; there were no menus in its curtained window and only the tiniest of signs outside to proclaim its existence. Harry stepped inside and, climbing the steep and narrow staircase to the first floor, reflected that the owners seemed to have done their utmost to discourage passing trade. They must have the confidence to rely on word of mouth. Whether Renata worked as a waitress or in the kitchens, he was impressed that she had recommended the cuisine at the place where she worked. In his experience, people on the inside of most kitchens preferred to eat elsewhere: ignorance was bliss. When he opened the door at the top and peered inside, however, he saw that the place was almost full. The light was low and the air thick with smoke; in the background a swarthy man with a drooping moustache was playing a bouzouki.
‘The name’s Devlin. I rang earlier and booked a table for one,’ he told the waiter who came to greet him.
As he was led to his seat, he saw that in the opposite corner of the room a large woman was dancing to the music. Her exotically tasselled green brassiere, chiffon hip scarves and see-through harem skirt revealed far more of her ample form than it concealed. A fringe of coins dangled over her forehead; she wore tiny cymbals on her fingers and a pair of gold anklets. As Harry watched, she shimmied towards a couple of men in business suits who were sitting in a small alcove. Their eyes gleamed in anticipation as, with a wicked smile and flutter of improbably long black eyelashes, she thrust her pelvis forward and dipped her breasts towards them before shimmying out of reach and on to the next table.
Menu in hand, Harry was wavering between kibeh and tabouleh — and telling himself that it was a long time since that lavish lunch at the Ensenada — when a tinkle of finger cymbals told him that the dancer was approaching. He turned to look at her again. At close quarters he suspected she was closer to fifty than to forty. Her make-up could not quite disguise the laughter lines around her mouth and eyes; her stomach was flabby, her buttocks huge. Each wiggle was determined rather than sinuous and her vast breasts seemed in imminent danger of escaping their skimpy moorings.
A brisk swivel brought her body within touching distance. Her perfume was a heavy musk; it even blotted out the smell of the cigars. She smiled at him, putting her tongue between her lips and bent down so as to give him a better view.
‘Mr Devlin?’ she asked in tones more redolent of Anfield than of the mysterious east. ‘Pleased to meet you. My name’s Renata Grierson.’