Yesterday's Papers (17 page)

‘Benny Frederick's due here to talk about the marketing video this afternoon, right?'

‘What?' Jim asked. ‘Oh, yes, that's right. Four o'clock, I think we agreed.' He paused and added, ‘And no cracks about Cinerama, please.'

After seeing clients during the morning, Harry set off up the coast to Southport, the resort where both Kathleen Jeffries and Ray Brill lived. It was inevitably a speculative trip. He had tried phoning Ray again without success and had decided against calling the dead girl's mother to make an appointment. Everything he had learned about her convinced him that she would be reluctant to assist a stranger to revisit the past. He had the impression of a strong but private woman: only a direct personal approach would be likely to succeed.

Kathleen Jeffries lived in a part of the town populated mainly by the elderly affluent, a place of bridge parties and golf dinners, of immaculate lawns and Sunday-washed cars. It did not take him long to find her home in a small block of purpose-built flats set at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. He pressed the buzzer on the entryphone and a woman's voice demanded, ‘Who is it?' It was a stern voice, the voice of someone who thought that no news was likely to be good news.

‘Mrs Jeffries, my name's Harry Devlin. I'm a solicitor from Liverpool and I would very much like to talk to you about your daughter.'

‘I have no daughter.'

Immediately he was on the wrong foot. ‘I mean - your late daughter Carole.'

After a moment's hesitation the woman said, ‘And why should I wish to talk to you about Carole?'

‘Perhaps if you were willing to let me in...'

‘I should warn you, Mr Devlin, I have a dog. A very good guard dog who takes exception to nosey parkers.'

Well, he'd always known it would not be easy. ‘I promise you, Mrs Jeffries, I have no wish to distress you.'

‘I'm glad to hear it,' said the woman before he could continue. ‘In that case you will not be offended if I say I have no wish to rake up a past that has gone beyond recall.'

‘Mrs Jeffries, I wouldn't trouble you without good reason, but I have important news for you. Edwin Smith, the man convicted of your daughter's killing, was innocent.'

A long pause followed before Kathleen Jeffries said sharply, ‘That is absurd. You don't know what you're talking about.'

‘Believe me, I do. A woman has now given Smith an unbreakable alibi for the time of the murder.'

‘You seem to have overlooked that he confessed to the crime.'

‘His confession was false. Someone else strangled Carole. I am sure you would be anxious, perhaps more than anyone, for the true culprit to be found. There has been talk that there was another boyfriend in her life, someone other than the pop singer Ray Brill. I wondered if you might have any idea...'

‘This is an outrage!' Even standing alone on her doorstep, he could feel the heat of her anger. ‘How dare you come here and talk such nonsense! I have no intention of discussing the matter with you any further. Now be off with you, or I shall call the police.'

One advantage of having acted on behalf of so many of life's losers was that Harry had learned when to admit defeat. Quietly, he said, ‘Of course I will leave, if that is what you want, Mrs Jeffries, but I can assure you my only wish is for the truth to come out. Perhaps you'll at least be willing to think it over. In the meantime, goodbye.'

She didn't answer and reluctantly he trudged back to his car. He still wanted to talk to Kathleen Jeffries, but he was equally sure that he would make no headway for the time being. The loss of a daughter to murder and a husband to suicide would be enough to harden any heart and he would need to reconsider his tactics before having any chance of making a more fruitful approach to her.

Time to try Ray Brill. He jumped into the MG and set off for the centre of the resort. In one of the side streets behind the elegance of Lord Street's shops was a clutch of large three-storey terraced dwellings, all of which had been converted into flats. The shabbiest was the one where the fallen star had landed. The salt wind from the sea had stripped much of the paint from the walls and the front garden was knee-high in brambles and bits of brick. A rusting supermarket trolley which lacked one of its wheels had come to rest on the path which led to the door.

Ray Brill's name was next to the bell of the ground-floor flat. Harry rang twice long and loud, but no-one answered. Perhaps his quarry wasn't even in town and his trip was going to be altogether wasted. He swore, but as he paused for breath the front door opened and a fat man in an anorak emerged.

‘Do you know where I might find Ray Brill?'

The man had the morose air of a chocoholic on a sugar-free diet. ‘No prizes for guessing, pal.'

‘I'm not very good at guessing.'

‘He'll be chucking his money away in the arcades, if I know anything.'

‘Do you know which arcades he goes to?'

‘Try the places down at the front. I only wish I had the money to throw around like that,' the man grumbled. ‘Chance would be a fine thing. Do you know how much my bloody ex-wife takes off me each week? Can you guess?'

Harry escaped before the fat man could tell him and drove to the promenade. Even out of season, the resort bustled and none of the amusement arcades was crying out for the lack of customers. A handful of truanting schoolkids and a clutch of unemployed teenagers he would have expected, but he also saw plenty of adults, middle-aged men and women wearing ancient coats and glazed expressions, pushing coins into slots with such singleness of mind that he felt sure that if a bomb exploded in the Floral Hall their eyelids would scarcely flicker.

In each place he visited, the flashing lights half-blinded him, but it was the noise that made his head begin to throb. Every arcade had its own incessant cacophony of weird electronic bleeps, cascading pennies and blazing guns. He watched the punters absorb the messages of the ever-changing liquid crystal displays which shone so brightly on the machines that enslaved them. Here people spoke a foreign language and followed severe commands from inhuman masters to nudge or hold, to wait for the fair play reel or to match the bar to earn a prize. They clutched at promises of big cash jackpots and a fresh pack of cards every time, digging deep in threadbare pockets for the privilege. WIN! WIN! WIN! urged the one-armed bandits as the oranges and lemons spun round and round, but as far as Harry could tell, for all the occasional tinkling of coins in pay-trays, time after time the slaves lost, lost, lost.

He was on the point of abandoning his search when he saw a face he recognised. Ray Brill's photograph had appeared in several of Ken Cafferty's newspaper clippings: Harry guessed it was a publicity shot taken during the heyday of the Brill Brothers, perhaps by Benny Frederick himself. But Ray had become old before his time. His slick dark hair had thinned and the sallow cheeks and boxer's nose were now patterned with dark red thread veins. Although he could be little more than fifty years old, he looked as though he had long since qualified both for a bus pass and a spell at the Betty Ford Clinic.

He was juggling twenty-pence pieces in his left hand and pressing buttons on a poker game machine with his right, as absorbed in the task as a scientist engrossed in calculations of infinite complexity.

‘Ray Brill?'

He spun round as if an invisible puppeteer had jerked his string. ‘What d'you want? Can't you see I'm busy?' The husky tones that had once sung poignantly of heartbreak had become harsh with the passing of the years and he spoke with the faint habitual slur of a man seldom laid low by drink but never wholly sober.

‘My name's Devlin. I've come from Liverpool to talk to you.'

‘Oh yeah? You know who I am?'

‘I have one of your records at home. “Blue On Blue”.'

‘What d'you want? My fucking autograph?'

‘I'd like to talk to you about Carole Jeffries.'

Mention of the girl's name seemed to concentrate his mind. ‘What is this? Why all the fuss about a bit of skirt who died thirty years ago?'

‘You've spoken to a man called Ernest Miller.'

‘What if I have?' Beneath the truculence, Harry sensed unease.

‘Miller's dead, but I...'

‘Dead?' He propped himself against the game machine as if in need of support. ‘You're having me on.'

‘I wish I were. He collapsed over the weekend. I was his solicitor and...'

‘So you're a brief,' said Ray Brill scornfully. He made it sound like a confession to unspeakable crime. ‘What d'you need to talk to me about Carole for?'

‘Ernest Miller learned that Carole wasn't strangled by Smith, the man who was sentenced for the murder. I'd like to find the man who did kill her.'

Harry gave Ray Brill a searching glance, but to his surprise the man seemed almost to relax. It was as if he had expected the conversation might take a different turn. ‘Can't help you.'

‘Something's on your mind, though. What is it?'

Ray Brill gave a harsh bark of laughter. ‘Nothing. Certainly not you, Mister Harry Devlin.'

‘You and Carole were drifting apart, weren't you? You'd had your fun, you were getting tired of her. Did she ever make your temper snap?'

‘What are you suggesting - that I murdered the little cow? Don't you know, smartarse? I had an alibi.'

‘Yes, I've heard that. But are you saying you wouldn't like to find out who really murdered her?'

At a nearby machine a young boy hit the jackpot and whooped with delight. Ray Brill fiddled with the money in his hand and finally said, ‘Smith did it. Everyone knows that.'

‘No, Ray, he was innocent. Someone else strangled Carole, I promise you. Does that shock you? After all, there once was a time when she meant something to you.'

‘If I lost sleep over every girl I've screwed, I'd never have another decent night's kip in my life.'

His sneer provoked Harry. An electronic rifle roared in his ear and he found himself shouting to make himself heard. ‘She'd found another boyfriend, hadn't she? That's what really hurt you. For once, the great pop star was going to get the elbow himself. Did you hate that? Did you crack on that you were the one giving
her
the push? How jealous were you, Ray?'

The noise died down and Ray Brill gave him a savage glare. ‘You're fucking crazy. There was no-one else. Now why don't you piss off out of here?'

Harry shrugged and made his way to the exit. There was no point in arguing with a man in such a mood. He already had the vague feeling that Ray had said something significant. Besides he had seen through the fury in the bloodshot eyes. No question about it: Ray Brill had something to hide.

‘You've been seduced,' said Harry to his partner at the end of the afternoon. They were standing in his office, their arms full of glossy brochures. ‘I never thought it would happen, but you've succumbed to the wiles of a silver-tongued charmer. Does Heather know?'

For the first time that he could ever remember, the big man blushed. He spoke hurriedly, as if to cover confusion. ‘You don't seem to realise that what Benny Frederick is telling us about video as a practice development tool makes plenty of sense. We need to promote ourselves more effectively to potential clients.'

‘I can't see the people I act for queuing up at the television lounge in Walton Jail to watch us.'

‘I was thinking more of businessmen in the Round Table,' his partner said impatiently.

‘You're saying they have pronounced criminal tendencies?'

Jim snorted. ‘You simply never meant to treat this meeting seriously, did you?'

‘You couldn't be more wrong. I'm glad Benny's so talkative. I'm dying to ask him about the Carole Jeffries case. Now that really is a matter of life and death. I'd just like you to get this marketing malarkey out of your system, that's all.'

A resigned sigh. ‘We'd better go back. He'll be wondering what we've been talking about. I take it your answer is no, then?'

‘Not so fast, I want to keep his interest. Let me handle this my way.'

‘Didn't the last person you said that to get twelve years?'

Harry grinned. ‘For Chrissake, he was an armed robber. Bloody lucky not to get fifteen. Now let's have another chat with Mr Frederick.'

They returned to Jim's room, where Benny Frederick was glancing around, taking in the ordered mound of correspondence as well as the framed certificates on the wall. He had darting eyes the colour of coal and Harry felt sure they would not miss much. His hair was still the same anarchic mass of dark curls it had been during his heyday as a photographer and his slim frame seemed not to carry an ounce of fat. At a distance he would have passed for a man of thirty rather than of fifty plus.

‘Had a chance to talk things over?'

‘We're having a spot of trouble identifying our unique selling point,' said Harry. ‘Maybe we could put our cards on the table and adopt the slogan
Cheap Advice For Those Who Can't Afford Better
.'

Jim raised his eyes to the heavens but Benny simply giggled and said, ‘I realise you'd need to contain costs. I'm not suggesting a remake of
Ben Hur
.'

‘
Carry On
,
Crusoe and Devlin
might be closer to the mark. Anyway, we need to mull it over. Thanks for sparing your time and talking to us. We do appreciate it.'

‘No problem. I realise it's a big investment for a firm like yours, a ...' For once, even Benny faltered, a suitably glamorous euphemism eluding him.

Harry came to the rescue. ‘A niche practice?'

Another giggle. ‘Exactly!' He stretched out a hand. ‘Well, delighted to have the chance to meet you.'

‘The feeling's mutual. As a matter of fact, there was another reason why I wanted a personal word with you.'