Suspicious Minds

Chapter Twenty

A tiny blonde girl pretending to be Mandy Rice-Davies kept simpering, “Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” whenever a pause occurred in the conversation. She had a naive smile and, for all that her leather skirt was slit to the thigh, lacked both the wit and the cheap allure that Harry associated with Stephen Ward’s playmate. The arm round her shoulder belonged to a leering middle-aged man whose disconcerting facial resemblance to Tony Hancock was not matched by his Geordie accent and habit of guffawing at his own unfunny jokes. Harry understood that from nine to five the couple played the parts of Bryan Grealish’s insurance broker and his secretary. He hoped those roles suited them better.

The party was in full swing and the Gracie Fields Room in the Majestic was packed to capacity. The walls were adorned with life-size cardboard cut-outs of the heads and shoulders of sixties heroes like John F. Kennedy and Bob Dylan. Over the hum of conversation, Gene Pitney wailed about his abortive journey back to Tulsa and complained that he could never, never, never go home again.

Talk had turned to the permissive society and the abolition of capital punishment. Slipping out of character, the insurance man tapped a pipe-smoking Harold Wilson on the shoulder and said, “What about deterrence, then? Take this bugger The Beast for instance. Now tell me this…”

Harry decided it was time to move on. At least that was in keeping with his chosen character. Richard Kimble, the TV fugitive who never had much luck catching up with the one-armed man seen running away from the scene of a crime. Distantly Harry could recall from his youth the occasional graffito saying: KIMBLE IS INNOCENT. But he couldn’t recall whether in the end justice had been done.

In the corner of the room Valerie, dressed as Diana Ross in her Supremes hey-day, was being chatted up by a hairy-chested Fred Flintstone. She seemed to be enjoying herself. Harry picked up another glass of wine from a tray carried by a girl made up to look like a youthful Mary Quant.

“Having fun?”

He turned to face a mask of mascara topped with a mass of platinum blonde hair. It took him a moment to penetrate the disguise and identify Grealish’s girlfriend. What was her name? Stephanie, yes.

“‘I Just Don’t Know What To Do With Myself.’”

“What?”

“You’re Dusty Springfield, right?” He sighed. “That was the best of her songs.”

“Yeah?” The girl wasn’t into pop history. She studied him with a frown. “You haven’t bothered to dress up. I think you’re the only one here in a suit.”

“Do you mind?” Harry tried to explain about Kimble, the man suspected of a crime he did not commit, but Stephanie had not even seen the repeats on Channel 4 and he soon gave up.

“So where’s Bryan — or should I say Elvis?” Grealish made a good Presley; he had the King’s lip curl off to perfection. “I haven’t seen him for a while. Last time I spotted him he was deep in conversation with one of the coppers from Z-Cars.”

“His accountant, would you believe?” Stephanie yawned. “They went off in a huddle. I got told to circulate.”

“The perfect hostess?”

“Do me a favour, I’m bored stiff. And as for bloody Bryan, he’s so wrapped up in talking about his money and his deals, he wouldn’t notice if I stripped off and lay down in the middle of the floor.”

“Try it. The Gracie Fields Room would never be the same again.”

“You must be joking. And who was Gracie Fields anyway?”

Harry thought about explaining that all the public rooms here were named after stars of yesteryear who had appeared at long-gone New Brighton landmarks like the Tivoli or Winter Gardens, but decided against it. To Stephanie, even the sixties were a bygone age.

“Men!” she snorted. He had the feeling she liked to have an audience, even if only of one mere male. “No consideration. Bryan’s a typical feller. No different really from Claire’s old man.”

“You’ve met Jack Stirrup?”

“There was a parents’ day at school. Claire introduced us. He thought the sun shone out of her backside.”

“Yes.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound, like, callous.” She shivered and Harry didn’t think she was being theatrical. “The sooner they catch him, the better.”

“The Beast?”

“Right. The crazy bastard. It’s frightening. That’s two girls I know he’s attacked. Makes you feel he’s getting closer all the time. And then there’s the blonde hair thing. I haven’t gone out on my own since the papers wrote about that.”

“Claire wasn’t blonde.”

“No. You’d have thought she was safe. Shows you, doesn’t it? No one’s safe.”

“You said you knew someone else, another of The Beast’s victims.”

“Right. Gina. Gina Jean-Jacques. She goes to the same school — Hilbre Hall.”

Harry stared at her. “Jean-Jacques, you say?”

“Right. Why?”

“The name reminds me of someone, that’s all. Anyway, what happened to her?”

Stephanie Elwiss looked at the floor. All of a sudden Harry remembered he was speaking to a young girl whose sophistication was as easy to wipe away as Dusty’s make-up.

“She was raped. One day when she was walking along the Wirral Way at Caldy. It’s a public place, you’d never believe anything could happen to you there in broad daylight. But it did.”

“Do you know Gina well?”

“We were friends for a while. Not so much now. She’s young for her age. And terribly shy, more interested in her ponies than boys. Different from me. When I got mixed up with Bryan, I reckon she decided I was a bit of a slut.”

“How is she now?”

“How would you be? I went to see her once, we all did. It was like meeting a different person, Claire said the same. Gina always used to be going on about her bloody horses. When I went to see her, she didn’t mention them once. As if she’d grown up overnight and hated it.”

“You talked about her to Claire? I didn’t realise you two saw each other out of school.”

“We didn’t, as a rule. No, she came round to the house last Thursday. Bryan was busy, so I was spending the evening at home with Mum.”

“So this was out of the ordinary? A visit from Claire on the off chance that you were in for once?”

“What are you getting at?”

“No idea. I’m interested, though. Jack Stirrup’s a good client of mine. Anything I can do to cast a little light on what happened to Claire will help.”

Stephanie shrugged. “Not much I can say.”

“Don’t be so sure. What did she want to see you about?”

“All she said was, her conscience had been nagging her to go round again and see how well Gina was recovering. She’d gone with Pam McDougall soon after it happened. That was the only time.”

“Did this talk about conscience surprise you?”

“Well…” Stephanie pondered. “Suppose it did.”

“Why?”

“I wouldn’t have expected it from Claire. Some people, yes, but not her. Never speak ill of the dead and all that, but she wasn’t exactly Florence Nightingale, you know? The way she went on after she got that yellow belt in karate! Mind you, she probably needed self-defence with that creepy boyfriend of hers… But I wouldn’t have thought she’d want to waste any more time with Gina. They were never pally.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Claire kept going on about how nightmarish it was. You know, to be raped by a man who wore a mask. So that you could pass him in the street a week later when he was ordinarily dressed and you wouldn’t even give him a second glance. Nothing to recognise, you see.”

“Anything else?”

“She said she was going to visit Gina again the next day. Last Friday.”

Harry felt a finger stroking the back of his neck. He knew that touch.

“Escaped from your prehistoric friend?” he asked without turning round.

“Jealous?” Valerie put her arm round his neck and pulled his face towards hers. Her smile was as provocative as the way her hips swung beneath the mini dress.

“I’d better be going,” said Stephanie. Without another word she melted into the crowd.

“Fancy her?” asked Valerie.

“Who’s jealous now?”

“We don’t own each other. Not even after last night. I don’t mind if you want to chat up pretty girls.”

“As Dusty used to sing: ‘I Only Want to Be With You.’”

She leaned against him, using his strength for support. “Bet you say that to all the lady barristers.”

Something impelled him to say, “I mean it, Val. You’re the only one.”

The small dark-skinned girl smiled. There was a woozy flirtatiousness about everything she said and did tonight. Harry guessed that at lunch and this evening she had drunk far more than she was accustomed to.

“I’m flattered. Really I am. Only…” Her face clouded for a moment.

“Yes?”

“Don’t get possessive, will you?”

“Why not?” he asked softly.

“‘Cause I’m not ready for it, that’s why not. Life’s short. Why make chains for yourself before it’s time?”

“Meaning?”

“Nothing in particular.” She stood upright with an effort at dignity which merely emphasised her lack of sobriety.

“Come on, what are you saying?” Harry knew he was making a mistake, but he too had been drinking and he felt the need to press the point, to ignore the voice in his mind which urged discretion.

“Oh well, if you must know. I don’t want to get tied down too soon. Do you understand?”

The message behind the question made Harry bite his lip in dismay. It was as if a ghost had started tapping on his shoulder. When Valerie was so unlike Liz, in looks and background and personality, when everything about their relationship was so different, why did she suddenly remind him of his former wife? Uninvited, the answer crept into his head. Because you need her more than she needs you, that’s why.

“I think so.”

“Oh Christ. Don’t sound so defensive. Perhaps it’s time for me to go.”

“Okay. I’m ready.”

“No need for you to come too, Harry. We don’t have to spend every night together.”

“I’d like to spend tonight with you.”

Valerie wrinkled her brow. “Look, let’s slow down a little, shall we? I already said, I don’t want to drift into something heavy just yet. We both have our own lives to lead.”

A sickening sense of frustration engulfed him. For a moment he was seized by the urge to strike out blindly, heedless of the consequences.

“And you have your own private interests to pursue, I suppose?” He didn’t try to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

“Come on, Val. Julian Hamer’s hovering in the background still, isn’t he?”

She stared at him, her face reddening with either embarrassment or anger. Or both. “For God’s sake! What’s Julian got to do with it?”

He should have stopped there, while an escape route remained open, but drink and disappointment had hold of him and he plunged on recklessly.

“Quite a lot, hasn’t he? The two of you seem very close.”

“Harry, I never thought you’d be so puerile. We’re adults, I’m entitled to do as I want. Julian’s a very dear friend, let me tell you. He helped me when I was starting out in the law, persuaded David Base to pass me the briefs he had to turn down because of pressure of work. I owe him a lot. He’s been going through a rough time lately and I’ve told him, anything I can do to help, I will. Your behaving like a jealous child won’t make me change my mind.”

The real Elvis was crooning from the speakers now. He sang that he was caught in a trap, protested that they couldn’t go on together with suspicious minds.

Harry said, “Have it your own way. Do you want a lift home or shall I call a taxi?”

She could match him for stubbornness. “No need. I can call a cab myself. Good night.”

As she stalked off through the crowd, he realised too late how badly he had behaved and called after her despairingly, “Valerie, I’ll give you a ring. Okay?”

But she didn’t give any sign that she had heard and he stood with bowed head long after she had disappeared from sight.