I Remember You

Chapter Three

Of course his wife Liz had not come back from the dead. This girl’s eyes were brown, not green. She lacked Liz’s high cheekbones and had a snub nose; her mouth was wider and her figure fuller. Yet the way she tossed the magazine aside and concentrated her attention upon him reminded him irresistibly of the woman he had loved with a passion as fierce as it had proved futile; a woman murdered less than two years before.

The resemblance exceeded any superficial similarity of physical appearance. As he overcame his sense of shock on seeing the girl, instinct told him she had the same thirst for life as Liz, and as strong a faith that tomorrow would be better than today. Her body seemed taut with suppressed excitement, as if she were about to embark on a great adventure. In her presence, he felt clumsy and ill-at-ease, and not simply because she had heard him swear. He realised he looked haggard, a rumpled man with hair that defied any comb and a suit as shiny as his shoes. A man whom Liz had left for someone else.

The beginnings of a smile stretched her lips as she contemplated him. It untied his tongue and he blurted out the first thing that came into his head.

‘Sorry … are you being attended to?’

Christ, of all the anodyne questions! Uttered, too, with a frog-in-the-throat nervousness excusable in a schoolboy, but close to absurd in a Solicitor of the Supreme Court of Judicature.

She spoke quickly, words tumbling from her in a torrent, as if she were eager to please.

‘Thanks for asking. I’m here to see your Mr Crusoe about a house sale. Your receptionist,’ she glanced in the direction of gum-chewing Suzanne on the switchboard, ‘told me he’s on the phone, but he’ll be free soon.’

Her vowel sounds betrayed native Scouse origins. This was a local girl made very good.

‘Have we — have we asked if you’d like a coffee while you wait?’ Behind him he heard a stifled cough of indignation from Suzanne. She regarded clients as a necessary evil; offering them hospitality was someone else’s job.

‘It’s quite all right,’ said the girl. ‘I had a cup before I left home.’

‘Fine,’ he said, trying to regain his composure. ‘I’m sure my partner will be here in a minute.’ He wanted to think of a reason to stay, but his powers of invention hadn’t recovered from their courtroom work-out and he found himself walking away into the corridor which led to his room.

Marching in the opposite direction, burly and brisk as a sergeant major, came his partner Jim Crusoe.

‘For God’s sake, old son, you all right? You look terrible. I’ve seen more blood in a banana.’

Harry was glad of the chance to shove the girl out of his mind. ‘I went for a drink with Finbar Rogan in the Dock Brief last night. A hangover I might have expected — not a ringside seat at Dante’s Inferno.’

Rapidly he recounted the events of the previous evening. No hint of surprise disturbed the contours of Jim’s bearded face; Harry had often thought that he would treat the onset of Armageddon as phlegmatically as a seminar on the law of registered title.

‘Arson, eh? Insurance job, do you reckon?’

‘I gather that when Finbar renewed the lease, you recommended him to take out a much bigger policy.’

‘If only I filled in the pools with equal foresight! Good advice, so long as he didn’t see it as a short cut to a small fortune.’

‘He would never be so stupid. He’s the obvious suspect.’

‘If all your clients were Mensa material, you’d be redundant, old son.’

‘True, if unkind. All the same when we were told about the fire in the pub, I didn’t think it was news he’d been expecting to hear. And when we saw the blaze he was genuinely shocked.’

‘Maybe the husband of one of his fancy women decided it was time to retaliate.’ Jim rubbed his beard. His amusement was tinged with disapproval; the most uxorious of men, he could never understand the impulse to promiscuity. ‘Anyway, can’t stop any longer. I have a client waiting.’

‘So I see.’

Something in Harry’s tone made Jim pause. ‘You know her?’

‘Not even her name. But for her, I’d gladly take up domestic conveyancing.’

‘Rogan’s corrupting you, old son. Keep your grubby paws off, she’s a respectable married woman. At least I assume she’s respectable. But she’s certainly married.

A trickle of disappointment dripped down Harry’s spine.

‘Who is she?’

‘Name of Rosemary Graham-Brown. I love clients with double-barrelled names, they never kick up about the bill. And she’s married to money. They’re selling a palace, to judge by the price and the property particulars.’

‘Any purchase?’

‘No, they’re emigrating to Spain. Never mind. If she wants a divorce, I’ll put a word in for you. After all, nothing like moving house for bringing hidden tensions to the surface.’

‘So people say. Personally, I’ve found cheaper ways of putting relationships under strain.’

Harry went to his room, a cramped cubicle overflowing with the papers he never quite got round to. His last remark had been truth spoken in jest. Since Liz’s murder, he had failed to find contentment with any of the other fish in the sea. The affair with his next door neighbour had soon petered out and earlier in the year a fling with a young barrister had ended in bitter recrimination and a mutual feeling of betrayal. Lately he had lacked a woman in his life and at times he found it hard to restrain a reluctant admiration for the carefree manner of Finbar’s philandering. Part of him deplored his client’s behaviour, but another part envied the luck of the Irish.

The phone trilled. ‘Mr Rogan’s here.’

Suzanne would have sounded bored if announcing that Elizabeth Taylor had called for matrimonial advice under the green form scheme, yet, for once, enthusiasm lightened her adenoidal tones. Finbar was incapable of speaking to a woman without trying on the charm. Although some proved immune, he had a flair for making people feel good — and for making them do his bidding. Some day he might even persuade Suzanne to make him a coffee.

‘We weren’t due to meet until two, outside the court door.’

‘He knows that,’ she said, as if explaining the obvious to a child. ‘But he says he’s come to take you out to lunch.’ She left Harry in no doubt that she considered him undeserving of such an honour.

He swept away a sheaf of unanswered correspondence to clear a space on the spare chair and returned to reception. His client was doodling a picture of a butterfly on the back of a Law Society newsletter, seemingly unscathed by the events of the previous night.

‘I can’t tell a fib, mate — you look the worse for wear after all our excitement together. Fancy a bite at the Ensenada, to sharpen you up for the battle this afternoon?’

‘After last night, a lie-down in a darkened room might do me more good. Anyway, come through for a minute.’

Once in Harry’s room, Finbar leaned back in the chair and put his feet on the desk. ‘I must say that girl of yours always takes my eye. She could lose a stone or two, for sure, but never mind. More of her to love, eh? She’s quite an advertisement for Crusoe and Devlin. First impressions in an office count for so much.’

‘We chose her specially to project a rude, lazy and brainless image. The next step is a logo with a V-sign superimposed over the scales of justice. Anyway, we’re stuck with her — no one else would take the wages we pay. So what are you doing here so bright and early, Finbar?’

‘Ah well, I wanted to give you lunch to say thanks for all your support last night.’

‘Don’t mention it. How’s your place looking?’

‘Ripe for the bulldozer if you ask me, although the landlord’s coming round to see what can be done. And the leather store down below is doing a roaring trade in what they call a Fire Sale. I reckon they’re flogging twice as much stock as they had in the entire shop last night.’

Harry laughed. He never ceased to marvel at the entrepreneurial genius of his fellow Liverpudlians.

‘How do you intend to keep the business going?’

‘I’m thinking of taking a winter break. I insure with the people whose ads brag about how fast they come up with the readies when calamity strikes. If they’re as good as their word, I should get a payment on account within the next few days.’ Finbar rubbed his hands. They were tattooed with dragons, picked out in vivid colours. ‘Tell that partner of yours I owe him a pint. It was a lucky day I followed his advice about the policy.’

‘As long as you didn’t give Fate a nudge.’

Finbar groaned. ‘Have you no trust at all? I thought we’d settled this last night. Listen, as Jases is my judge, I didn’t torch my own place. Nor did I pay anyone else to do it for me. Satisfied? Or do I need a plane to skywrite that I’m innocent?’

‘Sorry.’

A magnanimous wave of the hand. ‘We’ll say no more about it.’

‘You realise Sinead will want her slice of the insurance cake?’

‘What? Ah, be buggered to that. The massed army of the saints couldn’t persuade me to cut her in.’

Harry sighed. In this job, his tact and patience were tested as often as a whore’s knicker elastic.

‘Look, it’s another reason for doing a deal on the maintenance payments at the door of the court. Why don’t you let me talk to her lawyer at least? Kim Lawrence might fight each case like a personal crusade, but in the end she’s usually realistic.’

The Irishman grunted. ‘Let’s talk about it over lunch.’

Harry led the way to the front of the building. As he stepped into the courtyard, he realised that Finbar was no longer right behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he was startled to see the Irishman dodging back into reception and out of sight.

A sleek BMW had parked at the opposite end of the courtyard. A big dark man was leaning out of the driver’s window and haranguing one of the builders. The other members of the gang had stopped work and were looking on with folded arms and mutinous faces.

Harry stared at the tableau for a moment, then hurried back into the office. Finbar was winking at Suzanne, but Harry could tell he was shaken.

‘This young lady tells me there’s another way out of here.’

‘There’s an emergency exit at the back, yes.’

‘Mind if we leave that way? We can make sure the door isn’t blocked off — wouldn’t want you to fall foul of the fire inspector. Blazes can start when you least expect them, as I discovered last night.’

Finbar headed off in the direction Suzanne was pointing. Harry did not catch up until they were both in the street outside.

‘So what was all that about?’

Finbar slowed to a stroll. ‘No sweat, Harry, I simply spotted someone I’d rather not bump into. It makes no sense to spoil a meal. We have a lot to talk about, you and I. Sinead is so…’

‘Who didn’t you want to meet? The big feller in the BMW? Who is he?’

Finbar waved dismissively. ‘An old pal of mine by the name of Dermot McCray, if you must know. We go back a long way.’

‘You won’t be going forward a long way if you dive for cover whenever you see him.’

‘We had a spot of bother — let’s leave it at that. Now, about Sinead. The truth is, I just want rid of the whole damned business. I’m beginning to wish I’d never bothered with divorce after all. I won’t be making the mistake of matrimony again, believe me. It grieves me to think of that woman living the life of Riley at my expense.’

‘The judge will want to be convinced she is properly provided for.’

‘But she seems to want me to fund the entire bloody animal rights movement, by the sound of it. God, why ever did I get hitched to a woman crazy about all creatures great and small — except for her poor bloody husband?’

Sinead Rogan was a leading member of Free Animals Now! better known as FAN! a group of militant activists. Her approach to matrimonial litigation was equally bellicose.

‘I agree her claims are excessive, but let’s face it, what you offered originally wouldn’t keep one of her cats in Whiskas.’

‘I’m prepared to negotiate,’ said Finbar with dignity. ‘All I want is a fair settlement; surely that’s not too much to ask. What’s the old saying — let justice be done, though the heavens fall?’

‘Forget that idea,’ said Harry amiably. ‘It might ruin our case.’