I Remember You

Chapter Twenty-One

Harry watched Nick Folley stride across the concourse towards a waiting car emblazoned with the name and logo of Radio Liverpool and wondered whether he had been talking to Finbar’s murderer.

Why hadn’t Folley volunteered Sophie as his alibi? Of course, the obvious and innocent explanation could be the truth: he had no right to cross-examine anyone and Folley might simply have become sick of the questions and decided to co-operate no further. On the other hand — ah, that favourite lawyers’ phrase! — perhaps Folley did have something to hide. A glance at the train departure times told him that Folley could have taken an express to London two or three hours after the time when Finbar had met his death. What had Folley been doing before that? Had he been with Sophie — or not?

Harry debated with himself as the travellers jostled by. Melissa had been sacked; Sophie would no doubt refuse to speak to him if he returned to North John Street again. He needed another source of information and his best hope was Baz Gilbert. He decided to make for Bellingham’s. Someone else would be there with whom his first meeting was long overdue: Stuart Graham-Brown.

The shock of Finbar’s death had pushed Rosemary to the back of his mind — but not out of it. Yet nothing he had learned today made it easier to understand what the Graham-Browns were up to.

The Hallowe’en party sounded like a large scale public relations exercise rather than a routine knees-up; hiring the concert room at Empire Hall cost serious money. Why would the Graham-Browns go to so much trouble when they were on the point — they hoped — of emigrating? An elaborate bluff? One thing was certain: so far as the house sale was concerned, Stuart had hidden behind his wife for long enough.

Harry didn’t have a chauffeur-driven car on hand and the line of people searching for taxis was as long as a Kirkby dole queue, so he took the escalator for the Underground. The Liverpool Loop had long ago been christened the Bermuda Triangle by commuters driven to despair by the cancellation of scheduled services, but for once the metallic voice announcing delays due to a whole host of reasons, ranging from staff shortages to water on the line, was silent. As he arrived on the platform, a train pulled in, and five minutes later he was walking through the misty streets which led from James Street Station to Bellingham’s.

The wine bar was owned by a local actor who revelled in Liverpudlian hostility towards central government and he’d named the place after a man who had lived in the city almost two hundred years earlier; the story was told on a plaque inside the door to the bar. John Bellingham felt he’d suffered an injustice at the hands of the Russians; when the authorities failed to put matters right, he’d travelled to London and shot the Prime Minister. In those days there wasn’t much scope for defence lawyers and within a week Bellingham had been tried, convicted, sentenced and executed. Would Pearse Cato one day similarly be celebrated? Harry wondered. How long would it take for the memory of senseless brutality to fade, for today’s assassins to be regarded with tolerant good humour?

He spotted Baz Gilbert waiting at the bar for service and walked up behind him.

‘We meet again.’

‘Harry! There’s no escaping you. Did you speak to Sophie?’

‘Yes. And Nick Folley.’

‘He’s back, is he?’ Baz shook his head. ‘Like I said — you shouldn’t push your luck with Nick.’

‘He didn’t lay a hand on me.’

‘You don’t understand. He’s mixed up with some dangerous people.’

‘You don’t mean Dermot McCray, do you?’ Harry asked on the off-chance.

‘Who?’ Baz’s face was a blank.

‘An Irishman, a builder. He has connections with Merseycredit as well.’

‘The name means nothing to me.’

Harry believed him. ‘So who are these dangerous people?’

‘Listen, forget I said a word. There are things Nick is mixed up with that I’d rather not know about.’

‘And Sophie, is she also mixed up — ’

‘Hello,’ said Penny Newland in his ear. Her voice was sour with disapproval. ‘Are you still playing the detective?’

‘’Fraid so.’

‘It won’t do any good, you know.’

‘Neither will your leaving our guests on their own,’ said Baz.

She touched his hand. ‘Sorry, love, but I’ve had as much of them as I can take for the time being. They don’t seem able to talk about anything other than how rich they are. I’ve been told at least four times how much tonight’s beanfeast is setting them back. In the end, I decided to escape to the loo.’

‘It’s Stuart Graham-Brown that you’re with, isn’t it?’ asked Harry.

‘Yes, and his wife,’ said Baz. ‘Do you know Stuart?’

So Rosemary was here with her husband. Harry felt suddenly nervous. He took a deep breath, aware the time had come for him to face up to his two clients and find out exactly what game they were playing.

‘I’ve never met him,’ he said, ‘but somehow I seem to have heard a great deal about him.’

‘I’ll introduce you if you like,’ offered the disc jockey. ‘Can I get you a drink first?’

Harry refused, though he had seldom needed one more; this encounter called for a clear mind.

The wine bar was emptying as the last few customers decided they could extend their lunch hours no further. Baz led the way towards a table in the far corner of the room.

Sitting behind it were Stuart Graham-Brown and the hard-faced blonde from Tobacco Court.

Harry didn’t understand. Where was Rosemary?

‘What’s up?’ asked Baz. ‘Have you seen a ghost?’

‘No. But — perhaps I have misidentified one.’

‘I don’t follow you.’

Harry pointed to Stuart Graham-Brown’s companion. ‘Tell me her name,’ he whispered urgently.

Baz’s eyebrows rose. ‘I can do better than that, my friend.’ He waved to Graham-Brown and the woman and ushered Harry up to their table. ‘Let me introduce you,’ he said, slipping smoothly into his radio persona. ‘This is Harry Devlin, he’s a solicitor for his sins. Harry, meet Stuart Graham-Brown of Merseycredit. And this is his partner in business and life — the lovely Rosemary.’

The blonde woman smiled. Close up, Harry could see that she was older than he had realised. The cut of her outfit flattered her figure and although her make-up was liberally applied, the lines round her eyes needed another shot of collagen.

‘Good to meet you,’ she said. Stuart Graham-Brown nodded. Like his wife, he exuded the confidence that comes with cash in the bank. They would be the perfect bloody clients, Harry thought, if only we acted for them. Of course, neither had betrayed a flicker of recognition at the mention of his name.

Harry shook hands. Rosemary’s grip was strong. She wore even more jewellery than mascara and the cluster of rings on her fingers felt like a rich woman’s knuckledusters. He coughed to cover his confusion. For a moment he clutched at the idea that the Graham-Browns might have embarked on an elaborate charade: perhaps his original surmise was right and the blonde was indeed merely Stuart’s lover, not his wife. But no sooner had the thought occurred to him than he realised its absurdity. The truth was plain.

‘I gather you’ve hired Baz’s services to make your Hallowe’en party go with a swing,’ he said in a hollow voice.

‘It’s going to be a marvellous night for Merseycredit,’ said Graham-Brown. ‘Come along yourself — we’d be glad to see you. We work mainly with accountants, but it’s always good to have a lawyer or two on the team. Never know when I might need your services!’ He spoke with the exuberance characteristic of a certain kind of businessman. His manner put Harry in mind of John de Lorean with an East End accent.

‘Appropriate dress, mind,’ said Rosemary, wagging her finger. ‘Hallowe’en costumes are compulsory. The theme is “ghouls just wanna have fun”.’

‘So the two of you are in partnership together?’

Graham-Brown took his wife’s arm. ‘We’ve been together ten years now,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t have made it without Rosemary.’

The complacent tone made Harry want to cringe. But needing to know more, he forced himself into a bonhomie he thought laughably false but which they seemed to take at face value.

‘I saw your stand at the exhibition over at Empire Hall the other day. Good to see a local firm doing so well.’

‘Glad to make a contribution to the city’s economy,’ said Graham-Brown. ‘Can’t claim to be a native, but we relocated from London during the eighties and we’ve lived in Formby ever since.’

‘You feel settled there?’ asked Harry, just to make sure.

‘Love it. We’re at the top end of Crow’s Nest Lane, not far from the nature reserve.’

‘Pleasant place to bring up children, I should imagine. Do you have any kids?’

‘Just one,’ said the woman. ‘A little girl. Eighteen months.’

‘You’ll never believe this,’ said the proud father, pretending to wince, ‘but Rosemary insisted on calling her Rainbow.’

‘You have a nanny to look after her, I suppose,’ asked Harry, who had rapidly been putting two and two together.

‘Yes,’ said the real Rosemary. ‘I hated the idea of becoming a hausfrau. I’d always been a career woman and it was only when that old biological clock started ticking louder that I thought if we were going to have a family, we’d better get a move on. But after she was born, I found counting the minutes between nappy changes and feeding times was no substitute for the kick you get from sealing a deal in the office. So in the end we found a girl, and we’ve been very fortunate with her, haven’t we, Stu?’

‘Debbie’s very reliable,’ confirmed her husband. He winked at the other two men. ‘Looks terrific, too.’

‘Sounds like the perfect arrangement,’ said Baz, not trying too hard to stifle a yawn.

‘It suits us,’ said Graham-Brown.

Wait till you get home one night and find a strange family sitting in front of your fire and in proud possession of your title deeds, thought Harry. If that doesn’t wipe the smile off your face, nothing will.

Aloud, he said, ‘Pleasure to meet you. And thanks for the invite — I’ll do my best to get along. But now I must be off. There’s someone I desperately need to see.’