Suspicious Minds

Chapter Twenty-Six

“I asked you last week if you thought I’d done away with Alison.” Jack Stirrup didn’t want to be overheard by the woman in the adjoining room, but his voice was husky with suppressed anger. “On the way to the Majestic. Remember?”

“I remember,” said Harry. So long ago it seemed, a time when Claire was alive and he’d thought that Alison was dead.

“You dodged the issue. Typical bloody lawyer. You weren’t willing to take my word. Will you take it now? Once again: I-did-not-murder-Margaret.”

He drilled home each word as if addressing a halfwit, then sat back in his armchair with folded arms, challenging Harry to disbelief.

The clock chimed eleven. They were in the drawing room of Prospect House. Outside the builders’ skip had gone. Stirrup had abandoned the renovations as soon as he’d decided to put the place on the market. With no Alison and now no Claire, already it resembled a museum rather than somewhere people might live. Big wooden crates of belongings stood in the hall.

Harry had come to confront Stirrup, to break the news that the guilty secret was out. To his dismay Rita Buxton answered the door. She had kindly offered to help with the packing, according to Stirrup, but the buttons undone on her creased mauve blouse told a different story. Now she sat on the sofa next door, watching a Burt Reynolds movie, waiting for Harry to leave.

When he’d announced Alison was alive, Stirrup’s involuntary flinch betrayed dismay, not delight. His recovery had been swift, but not swift enough to dispel the memory of that first reaction of alarm. All the same, the instinct of self-preservation was strong. He interrupted with a fierce denial before Harry came to the end of Alison’s explanation for disappearing without trace.

“Never. No way. I loved Margaret. Our marriage was all right. Okay, we had our ups and downs but so do all couples. You know that as well as anyone, after all.”

Passing his tongue over dry lips, he’d continued talking, almost as if to convince himself.

“It was an accident, what happened to her, a terrible accident. Nothing to do with me. The brakes were gone. I always blamed the garage, but nothing could be proved. Margaret took a bend too fast, it was over in a second. No one ever hinted at anything sinister. The police were satisfied — for once.”

Listening, Harry drummed his fingers on the table at his side. Each time Stirrup opened his mouth, he gained in conviction. Even assuming he was guilty, he’d had plenty of time to prepare a plausible defence. And he wasn’t fool enough to deny that he had tried to frighten Alison when she threatened to walk out on him by claiming to have murdered Margaret.

“Okay, it was stupid of me. I was desperate, willing to clutch at anything. Wouldn’t any man fight to keep the woman in his life?”

Harry thought back to the dreadful night when Liz had confessed her love for another man. He hadn’t threatened or cajoled or begged. He’d simply stared at the floor and in the end surrendered to what seemed inevitable. If he had not — this was what tortured him whenever he was careless enough to let his mind stray towards what might have been — she might be alive today. Who could be sure of the right thing to do? Perhaps, despite its crudity and its ultimate failure, Stirrup’s response had been the more courageous. Perhaps he rather than his client should have handled things differently.

Hard as he found it to accept that Alison would be terrified by a mere cock-and-bull story, his job was not to act as judge and jury. Guesswork and intuition fell far short of knowledge. In the absence of proof that Stirrup was lying, Harry knew he ought to accept what he was told.

“Okay, Jack. So it’s all been a terrible misunderstanding. The fact remains, Alison doesn’t see it like that.”

“Where is she?”

“Like I said, I can’t tell you.”

“Now look, you’re supposed to be my man, remember? What kind of lawyer are you?”

“A tired, confused and probably incompetent one. That’s beside the point. I told her I had to let you know she was alive. Nothing more. As for Bolus, I’ll call him tomorrow morning.”

Stirrup said through gritted teeth. “She’s my wife, Harry. Have you forgotten?”

“No. But the marriage is over. Clearest case of irretrievable breakdown I’ve ever seen. And now you have Rita.”

“I want to talk to Alison. Find out what the bloody hell she’s been playing at.”

“Can’t be done. At least, not until she changes her mind. And for that, I don’t recommend you hold your breath.”

Stirrup swore, but Harry gazed at him without blinking. He hadn’t mentioned anything about Cathy Morgan, had simply confirmed Alison’s determination to carve out a new life under an assumed name and in a different town.

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it, Jack. Sorry. She’s alive and well, that’s all you need to know. End of the pressure from Bolus — Doreen too, come to that. Alison’s no wish to see either you or her mother again. So the time’s come to get on with the rest of your life. For your own sake as much as hers.”

“And that’s your best professional advice?”

“For what it’s worth.”

“Which is bugger all.” Stirrup lumbered to his feet. “All right, Harry, piss off. You’re not my solicitor as from this moment. Send me your bill for work up to date. I won’t quibble about the sums. I’m not the untrustworthy bastard you think I am.”

Harry stood up. Far from coming as a surprise, the parting of their ways was unavoidable, had been from the moment he’d assured Alison he wouldn’t reveal her whereabouts. He extended his hand.

“Okay, Jack. I’ll be off. I’m sorry it’s…”

“Save it.” Stirrup ignored the outstretched hand and jerked his head in the direction of the door. “You know the way out.”

Once outside the house Harry allowed himself the indulgence of a self-reproaching groan. He had achieved the worst of all worlds. Crusoe and Devlin had waved goodbye to their biggest client and any chance of cutting a slice off their overdraft in the foreseeable future. And for what? A promise given to a woman whom he did not know any more. An unnecessary promise, if Stirrup was telling the truth now and his claim to have killed Margaret was a lie invented to keep Alison.

On the way home he wrestled with his dilemma. Had he been unfair to Stirrup? The man had lost his wife and daughter in quick succession. He might be to blame for the first misfortune; the second was quite outside his control.

As Harry drove and turned his thoughts to Claire, her behaviour before her death started to bother him again. He had meant to ask someone — was it Gina Jean-Jacques? — a question and had failed to do so. Now he’d let it slip his mind, the more he strained for recollection, the more elusive it became.

Back in Empire Dock, his flat seemed as barren of life as Prospect House. If only Valerie were waiting for him. What would she be doing now? If he had the guts to pick up the phone, he could ask her over. It was late, yet she might be willing to come.

He dialled the number which he’d committed to memory weeks before. The tone kept ringing, insistent and repetitive.

Come on, he muttered into the mouthpiece. Surely you’re not out on the town tonight?

Finally he heard a click at the other end. A man spoke. Sounding weary, as though he’d just climbed out of bed.

“Hello?”

Harry froze, unable to utter a word.

“Hello? Hello?” A note of irritation crept in. “Hello? Who’s that?”

The man banged the receiver down in evident disgust. Harry maintained his grip on the handset for another minute before he slowly put it down.

Of course he had recognised the voice. It belonged to Julian Hamer.