Suspicious Minds

Chapter Eleven

“Still no news about Claire?” asked Valerie.

Harry shook his head. “Close on thirty-six hours now and none of us has any idea where she is.”

They were studying the dinner menu at the Ensenada. It was their first time together since Stirrup’s anguished summons had interrupted their Saturday afternoon. Harry hoped a meal in his favourite Liverpool restaurant might make amends; he refused to think of its effect on his bank balance. At the door, Pino Carrea, the amiable and loquacious proprietor, had greeted them as if favoured by a visit from royalty. Pino had kissed Valerie’s hand and extolled the virtues of the Chateaubriand. But then an actress currently starring at the Everyman had arrived in the company of a gentleman other than her husband and, with a flurry of apologies, Pino had turned to welcome the newcomers and glean as much gossip as possible.

“What do the police think?”

“Bolus obviously reckons Jack’s eliminating his family one by one.”

“And you?”

“No way he’d ever harm that girl.”

Claire had vanished into thin air. A search of her room at Prospect House had revealed no hint of the assignation from which she had failed to return. Assuming there had been an assignation. But why else would she deceive her father about the purpose of her visit to West Kirby? The police had rapidly obtained confirmation from a bus driver that he had picked Claire up at the nearby stop on Saturday morning. He remembered her getting off the bus on the edge of town. Thereafter the trail petered out. No sightings either in West Kirby or elsewhere.

Harry had spent most of the day with Stirrup and the police. Not once had Bolus even raised his voice. But his questions had become scalpel-sharp.

“For your wife to go missing, that’s unfortunate,” suggested the policeman late in the afternoon. “But for your daughter to disappear as well…”

For Stirrup that had been the last straw. He’d leapt to his feet, the veins in his head bulging.

“You stupid bastard! While we’re here wasting time, my daughter…”

Only the combined efforts of Harry and a burly constable restrained him. Bolus never flinched, assessing his suspect’s demeanour with unruffled calm. After his outburst, Stirrup had sat down again, head in hands. Not weeping, but not far from it, Harry judged. And Bolus had been content not to push any further. At least for the time being.

All the obvious leads were being followed. Detectives were interviewing Claire’s schoolfriends, her teachers and people she knew locally. As yet they had turned up nothing helpful. Bolus wanted urgently to see Peter Kuiper. The student was not to be found at his digs and no one there could say where or with whom he might be.

“Is it possible,” suggested Valerie gently, “that you may have been wrong about the boyfriend?”

“Okay, he may have something to hide — Claire’s underage, after all. Yet I’m equally sure he expected to find her at home.”

“What about Jack Stirrup? Perhaps Claire discovered he’d done away with Alison? She might have tried to blackmail him. There may have been a struggle. A violent blow. A more or less accidental death.”

“Nothing’s impossible,” said Harry slowly.

“But?”

“Okay, there were occasional hesitancies. Contradictions. Useful for a prosecuting counsel, perhaps — but nothing to convince me Stirrup killed his own daughter. He loves the girl. Even if he did murder her in a moment of madness, he wouldn’t be able to hide his guilt.”

“Then if he’s innocent…” She broke off to demand: “What are you looking at?”

“See over there,” whispered Harry. “The feller who has come in with the young blonde.”

“Don’t tell me he caught your eye, rather than her.”

“Jealous? I can’t believe it. Anyway, the answer is yes. You know who he is?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Bryan Grealish and I go back some way.”

“Seriously?”

“Now who’s jealous?”

Pino had entrusted the actress and her escort to a minion and was now lavishing hospitality on Grealish and the girl. Bearded, pot-bellied and barely five feet tall, the restaurateur resembled a pint-sized Pavarotti; Harry always half-expected him to burst suddenly into song. For once Pino seemed unconcerned that a male diner was tieless; perhaps he realised that by Grealish’s standards of sartorial elegance, a plain open-necked shirt and grey slacks were much the same as formal dress.

The businessman took the welcome as his due, like a film star being flattered at an Oscar ceremony. Harry recalled the blonde from his visit to the Majestic; the low cut and brief length of her expensive white cocktail dress meant that she was almost as skimpily clad by night as by day.

“How do you come to know him? Is he a client?”

“No, I met him through Daddy. They’ve had business dealings for years. Bryan bought a lot of shares in Saviour Money and he was elected to the board a month or so ago.”

“Small world. I ran into him myself the other day. He also happens to be an old rival of Jack Stirrup. What do you make of him?”

“I can resist the bedroom eyes. He’s one of those men who thinks he’s committing a social gaffe if he doesn’t put his hand on your bum. Though I’m a little old for his tastes; it’s ages since I was sweet sixteen.”

Harry muttered, “That’s all we need. They’re being shown over here.”

Pino was conducting the newcomers to an adjacent table. Harry saw Grealish recognise first him and then Valerie, and watched the man’s eyebrows rise.

“We meet again. Evening, Mr. Devlin. And Valerie, how are you?”

Grealish clasped her hand and lifted it to his lips whilst the blonde at his side gave Harry a surly nod.

“I’m fine, Bryan. I understand you know Harry?”

“Right. He and a client granted us the honour of their custom one lunchtime last week. Though I had no idea that the two of you were friends. I always understood that barristers and solicitors moved in separate social circles. Like gentry and tradesmen.”

“I’m willing to slum it once in a while. What about you — deserting the Majestic for the Ensenada?”

Grealish flashed his teeth in a wolf’s grin as he and his girlfriend took their seats. Leaning over to continue the conversation he said, “Need to check out the culinary competition on this side of the river every once in a while. And how is Jack Stirrup, Mr. Devlin? Still short of a wife?”

“Not only a wife,” said Harry.

“Don’t follow.”

“His daughter went missing yesterday.”

“You mean Claire?”

The question was so unexpected that it took Harry a couple of seconds to realise that it had been uttered by the blonde girl. He switched his gaze to her. Beneath the heavy layers of mascara, worry had cast a shadow.

He said, “Sorry, I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

“My fault,” said Grealish, oozing lazy charm. “Darling, meet Miss Valerie Kaiwar, barrister of this city. Her father and I do a little business together. And this is Harry Devlin, a local solicitor. Val, Harry, say hello to Stephanie Elwiss. A very good friend of mine.”

“You know Claire?” asked Harry.

The blonde fiddled with her napkin, a nervous gesture. Perhaps she regretted her intervention. “Well, yeah, actually I do.”

“How’s that, may I ask?”

She glanced at Grealish before replying. “Through — through school, actually.”

“You used to go to the same school?”

Grealish threw back his head and roared with laughter. “See, lover, you’re able to fool even a man-about-town like Mr. Devlin. Now do you believe you’re grown up?”

To Harry, he said, “Matter of fact, Steph’s still supposed to be at school. Christ knows why. Life’s got more to offer her than swotting for exams and wasting her time with a bunch of pimply students.”

When Harry thought about it, he could believe that she was no more than, say, sixteen. She looked sophisticated in an evening dress, but when she opened her mouth a child spoke.

“Are you a friend of Claire’s?”

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”

“What, then?”

“Well, we have friends in common. What’s happened to her?”

“Wish I knew.”

Harry explained the previous day’s events. No point hushing them up now that the police were involved. Any chance that he might be able to pick up some clue to Claire’s whereabouts was worth taking.

Stephanie’s eyes widened. “That’s terrible.”

“Is the girl with her step-mum?” suggested Grealish.

Harry stared at him and only narrowly avoided saying, “Now, why didn’t I think of that?” On reflection, the answer was clear and twofold. First, he suspected that Alison was dead. Second, Claire and Alison were supposed to be on frosty terms. And yet the first premise might prove false and the second an exaggeration. Claire was, after all, much nearer to Alison in age than her father. Was it possible that the two of them might have more in common than people had realised?

“Unlikely, I think. But even if you’re right, that still leaves the question — where is Alison?”

Grealish spread his arms. “Don’t ask me.”

Harry became aware of someone hovering above his elbow.

“Ready to order, sir?”

Harry dealt with the waiter and then turned back to the blonde girl. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Valerie shifting impatiently in her seat.

“Sorry, love,” he whispered. “Won’t be a minute.” To Stephanie he said, “The police are sure to be in touch with you soon. Any idea where Claire might be?”

“None. None at all. You don’t think…”

“What?”

“That she might have been murdered by — you know — The Beast?”

“For Chrissake,” said Grealish. “What sort of conversation is this for a Sunday evening? The girl’s done a runner, I expect. Lots of kids do. Who wouldn’t with old Jack as a father? Don’t worry yourself about this Beast, Steph. He hasn’t murdered anyone yet. That’s not how he gets his fun.”

Again he bared his teeth in a crafty grin. And for a moment Harry found himself comparing the face of Bryan Grealish to a vulpine mask, like something worn by The Beast himself.