I Remember You

Chapter Sixteen

Chewing a slice of cold toast the next morning, Harry asked himself if he really believed Melissa to be capable of murdering Finbar.

A premeditated assassination would surely be beyond her. He could imagine her committing a crime of passion — but not a pre-planned, cold-blooded killing. Her attack on Finbar with the scissors showed she had a dangerous streak; yet she had admitted to it, despite knowing the only other witness was dead. A good defence lawyer could make capital out of that, even though her frankness might be motivated by something other than an innocent devotion to the truth.

What had been the purpose of Finbar’s nocturnal visit to deserted Colonial Dock, whence no ships had sailed in years? He must have known his killer. Harry could not believe that this was a case of accidental death, nor that Finbar would have made his hire car available for a perfect stranger to climb in, seize the wheel and mow him down.

He could still hardly credit that Finbar was dead. All night he’d found it impossible to sleep but now he was up he felt physically drained. Time after time he stole a glance at the telephone, half expecting it to ring. How he would love to pick up the receiver and hear the Irishman announce, like a modern Mark Twain, that reports of his demise were an exaggeration. But for once the phone remained silent.

Strange to think that never again would he be deafened by a burst of Finbar’s exuberant laughter. No more invitations to sink a pint or three at the Dock Brief; no more tall stories about life in Dublin; no more boozy philosophising about why people should want their bodies disfigured by elaborate tattoos. Over the past few days Harry had discovered the selfishness underneath Finbar’s charm. But he couldn’t help mourning the man, all the same.

It was almost half past eight: time for a news bulletin. Harry reached across the breakfast bar and switched on his transistor radio, curious to learn how Radio Liverpool would announce Finbar’s death.

The Who were singing about their generation — they hoped they would die before they got old. It might have been Finbar’s theme song. Harry remembered his client’s rueful confession to the police on the night of the fire: that he had made too many enemies to have any prospect of ever drawing his pension. With hindsight Finbar’s throwaway remark seemed tragically prophetic.

A jingle played and Baz Gilbert said, ‘And in the newsroom, it’s Clive Sheron.’

A young man’s solemn voice said, ‘Merseyside police are treating the death of a well-known local tattoo artist as suspicious. Mr Finbar Rogan, whose body was found at Colonial Dock yesterday evening, had apparently been run over by a motor vehicle, but the driver failed to report the incident. A police spokesman told us that enquiries are continuing.’ Further items followed — about lay-offs at a Halewood factory and Everton’s injury worries in the lead-up to Saturday’s derby game — as Harry pondered Sladdin’s role in the enquiry.

If Special Branch continued to be involved, a terrorist connection with the crime could not have been ruled out. Did that point the finger back at Dermot McCray? Might McCray have been an associate of Pearse Cato back in Ireland in days gone by? Harry thought it possible, despite Finbar’s denial. Yet how could McCray have killed Finbar and drunk with Graham-Brown and his blonde bit-on-the-side at one and the same time?

Of course, McCray might have slipped out of the wine lodge whilst Harry was supping in the Plimsoll Line. However, the idea that he might have done so, quickly taken his revenge on Finbar and then raced back simply to conclude his argument with Graham-Brown stretched credulity to breaking point. Harry suspected that McCray had given Finbar a fright with the fire and the bomb; but someone else had managed to finish him off before the builder had the chance.

All this speculation was, Harry knew, idle; the police were in charge of the investigation and the sensible course — and the soft option — was to leave them to it. But sensible courses and soft options held no appeal for him. Finbar, for all his faults, was entitled to justice. Harry owed it to him to find out what had happened. All his training in the legal process, his learning to see it as trial by combat, adversarial rather than inquisitorial, had never succeeded in smothering his urge to discover the truth. He could feel now the physical signs of the hunger which had in the past cost him dear. The churning in his stomach was familiar, so too the dryness in his throat: no point in pretending otherwise. He couldn’t be satisfied, wouldn’t find peace, while the puzzle remained unsolved.

‘Time for a song from the latest Luther Vandross album,’ said Baz in the background. He sounded relaxed, unaffected by doom and gloom from the newsroom. It was as if he had never met the man whose death had just been reported. ‘Luther’s a special favourite of my lovely producer, Sophie Wilkins, so you can expect to hear plenty more from him for the rest of this week.’

Harry considered Sophie. Last night he’d paid little heed to Melissa’s suggestion that, on leaving her flat, Finbar could have headed straight for Sophie’s arms, because it had seemed so unlikely. Harry’s reading of the row at Empire Hall had been that Sophie’s priority was to re-establish herself in Nick Folley’s affections; she wouldn’t see any long-term future for herself as one of Finbar’s fancy women. Harry guessed her visit to the Blue Moon had been prompted by a fleeting lust rather than any desire for a more lasting relationship. On the other hand, Finbar was ever the optimist. If anyone had a skin thick enough to turn up again on Sophie’s doorstep, he was the man.

A visit to Radio Liverpool was called for, Harry decided. But before he went there he would need to work out exactly what he intended to do — there must be no more cocked-up confrontations. The humiliating encounter with Dermot McCray in Fenwick Court still burned in his memory.

As he stepped out of the Empire Dock buildings, he felt the morning’s cold bite. Fog shrouded both the river and the city streets. It gave everything an eerie feel, with cars and people suddenly looming from nowhere. As he walked towards the front door of his office, he was struck by the calm of Fenwick Court. It took him a moment to realise the reason for it: there was no sign of McCray’s workers. He peered through the gloom to left and right. It didn’t require a site agent to tell him that the job was barely half done, yet the courtyard was deserted.

‘Where’s the building gang?’ he asked as he entered reception.

Suzanne shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

Finbar’s death should have been mystery enough for him to worry over without the distraction of wondering what had happened to McCray’s men. But their disappearance bothered him and, as he picked up his post and wandered to his room, he began to wonder if it might be connected with their boss’s activities the previous evening. A call from Suzanne interrupted his conjectures.

‘Mrs Graham-Brown’s arrived. She says she must see you. She’s just received your letter about her house sale falling through.’ The girl paused and then added, in a complacent whisper, ‘She seems very upset.’

The shock of Finbar’s death had almost made him forget how much he wanted to see Rosemary again. Although he didn’t kid himself that she had come here to do anything more than discuss the Ambroses’ default, he was glad she had risen to his bait, and the sight of her husband with the hard-faced blonde had made him wonder again about the state of the Graham-Browns’ marriage. Was she unaware Stuart was playing away from home — and if he told her, how would she react?

He went out to greet her. She was perched on the edge of her chair, as if she didn’t feel she had the right to be there. He was shocked to see how pale she looked; in her haste to get out that morning, she hadn’t bothered with make-up. Her face looked younger than ever — and pinched with anxiety.

‘I got your letter,’ she said. ‘This is dreadful news. How can people behave like this? I had to come over to see you straight away.’

He took her to his room. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been upset. Snags like these do occur from time to time. Of course, you will be wanting to press the Ambroses for compensation for your inconvenience.’

‘The money’s not important,’ she said.

How many times had Harry heard clients utter that sentiment? It was the regular refrain of the obsessive litigants who talked a lot about principles and kept lawyers in business. Almost invariably it was untrue. Yet when Rosemary wore that earnest expression, he could not help believing her. She seemed to have been shattered by his news.

‘You have a fine property,’ he said. ‘You’ll find another buyer, sooner or later.’

She waved the suggestion away with an angry jerk of her hand. ‘That might take ages and we can’t afford to hang around. You don’t understand, it’s so important that this sale goes through. Surely you can do something?’

She had a beseeching look that he found hard to resist. He was a fool to be flattered by her faith in him, he knew, but he could not help it. In a gentler tone, he said, ‘I’m sorry. You do have various rights. But you can’t force the Ambroses to buy at the point of a gun.’

She closed her eyes and he moved his chair close to hers. Greatly daring, he took her hand in his.

‘Why is it so important, Rosemary? Surely a few weeks don’t make any difference.’ He paused. ‘Especially when Stuart hasn’t even got round yet to telling his staff that he’s leaving town for good.’

She stared at him and withdrew her hand. ‘What? You don’t have any connection with Merseycredit!’

‘The firm had a stand at an exhibition I was attending. I came across it quite by chance.’

‘Have you — have you spoken to Stuart?’

She was stunned by what he was saying, no question about it. He determined to press home his advantage.

‘No, not yet. But I’ve seen him and, though it’s none of my business, I can’t say I like the company he keeps.’

‘What do you mean?’

She seemed genuinely puzzled by his remark. He had to make a split-second decision whether to tell her about her husband’s fancy woman. He chose to leave that to one side; his first concern was to ask after Dermot. Even as they talked, an idea had been forming in his mind which would explain why the builder and financier had got together.

‘There’s a man called Dermot McCray, a local builder — I believe he may have links with an Irish terrorist organisation. I’ve seen him drinking with Stuart and I’ve wondered what they had in common. The answer may be that McCray has funds he needs to launder: illicit money, to be sent back to Ireland perhaps. A company like Merseycredit might be able to help.’

It was a long shot, of course. He had no hard facts to support his theory. And yet if McCray was involved with terrorists it would explain a good deal: not only the bomb, but perhaps also the odd behaviour of the building workers.

Rosemary gazed at him in bewilderment, apparently lost for words. He was thinking furiously. If some of McCray’s gang were members of, say, an active service unit, using the Fenwick Court contract as a cover which had somehow been blown, no wonder there was no sign of them outside this morning. For all he knew, they might be back in the Emerald Isle by now.

‘You’re crazy,’ she said. ‘Stuart would never get mixed up with anything like that. Terrorists? I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’

‘Stuart may not know who or what he’s dealing with. Where there’s money, there’s often muck. It’s wise not to ask too many questions.’ The same could be said of work in the legal profession, he knew, but he resisted the comparison.

Rosemary cradled her chin in her hand. She too seemed to be thinking fast.

‘I don’t want you talking to Stuart about this, do you hear? You’re imagining things. It’s bad enough that you haven’t managed to sell our bloody house. If he even dreamed you’d said these things, he’d raise blue murder.’

‘I want to help you,’ said Harry. ‘Believe me, I’m not sure what Stuart’s up to, and I suppose it’s none of my business, but I’d hate to see you getting into any kind of trouble.’

She snatched up her handbag and rushed to the door. When she turned to face him again, there were high spots of colour on her cheeks. ‘I’m not in any kind of trouble, do you hear? You mean well, I do see that, but you have the wrong idea about Stuart and me. Take my word for it. I’m not in any kind of trouble!’

The door slammed behind her. Harry thought for a moment about following her but at once realised to do so would be folly: let her think things over alone and make her own decision about whether to accept his help. For he was sure she was protesting too much. When she denied being in trouble, Rosemary was desperately trying to reassure herself.