Suspicious Minds

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Through the keyhole he could see Valerie in her room at Balliol Chambers. The place was dark except for the glare of the desk lamp on her face. Her lips were open, as if she were trying to scream, but Harry couldn’t hear a sound. Her eyes were following the movement towards her of something out of his line of vision; her pupils dilated in terror even as he watched. Harry grasped the door knob, squeezing it so hard that it began to crack in his hand, but she had locked him out. And locked someone else in with her. An unseen hand switched on the overhead light and Harry saw that Valerie was powerless to defend herself. Her arms and ankles were tied by thick cord to the chair on which she sat. Into view came the stooped back of a man in waistcoat, white shirt and pinstripe trousers. He approached her slowly, as if relishing her fear. In his hands was a black silk cravat, knotted into a ligature. Valerie shut her eyes and bowed her head, surrendering to her fate. The man bent over her and at last Harry found the strength to cry out.

“No!”

The man turned round and Harry saw at last the face of The Beast. A wolf’s face, teeth bared in a savage grin. Then The Beast raised a gloved hand and peeled the rubber mask away. To leave Harry staring into the mocking eyes of Julian Hamer.

Suddenly he woke. He was naked and in his restlessness he had cast off the duvet, yet his skin was sticky with sweat. His bedroom was as dark as Valerie’s chambers in his dream. A glance at the alarm clock told him it was ten to four. The sun had not yet risen. Even at this hour it was so hot that his limbs ached and the lack of air made it hard to breathe.

For a while he lay motionless, angry that he had let his envy of Hamer turn sleep into a torment. Of course he had lost Valerie: he was too experienced at missing out on the good things of life not to recognise the stomach-turning awareness that something worthwhile had slipped out of reach, like a child’s beach ball borne away on the tide.

The clock’s hands had crawled past the hour before he forced himself off the bed and into the living room. There he poured himself a generous measure of Johnnie Walker, downing it at a gulp. The sharp bite of the alcohol made him feel better and the flat somehow less empty. He poured another and settled down in an armchair. This time he did not drink so fast.

He closed his eyes but his mind roamed, trying to pick a path through the maze that had defeated him for so long. Now he realised that the search for Alison had led him to a dead end. And although Stirrup might have murdered his first wife, he could never be convicted if he maintained his categorical denial of guilt. Yet the killing of Claire continued to be a torment. Why had she suffered a fate that did not make sense even in the context of any of The Beast’s previous crimes?

Harry concentrated on images of the dead girl. Claire at Caldy. Claire in Balliol Chambers. Claire’s unexpected visit to Gina Jean-Jacques. Claire’s mysterious trip to West Kirby. Somewhere amongst the childish deceptions of her young life lay, he felt sure, the clue to her death, the reason why The Beast had for the first time abandoned his preference for blondes.

For hours, it seemed, he struggled with the conundrum. Eventually sleep returned and this time he did not dream.

It was half-nine before he awoke once more; neither the alarm nor the shafts of light falling through the narrow gaps in the curtains had stirred him. The day ahead would be long and busy and he was already late. Yet that did not seem to matter. He opened his eyes to the morning and stretched his arms to the heavens, as if freed from a slave’s chains. He felt intensely alive and all-seeing. Now at last he knew the solution. And a solution, what was more, that gave him grim satisfaction.

He rang the office to say he wouldn’t be in until noon at the earliest. Slinging his jacket over his shoulder he headed for the city centre. In Chavasse Park young girls lazed on the grass, soaking up the sun, but he didn’t give them a second glance. Inside ten minutes he was climbing the stairs of Balliol Chambers.

Denise sat behind the desk in reception, her pale pink top revealing tanned flesh. As she caught sight of him she lifted her eyebrows and smiled.

“Oppressive, isn’t it? This must be the hottest day we’ve had yet. They said on the weather forecast that a storm…”

“Where’s Julian?”

She frowned at his brusqueness.

“It’s Mr. Hamer you’d like to see? I didn’t realise a conference was booked.”

“I haven’t an appointment. But I need to see him right now.”

Denise pursed her lips, put out by this breach of professional courtesy.

“Let me see, David Base is having a day off at home. Now where has he put the diary…?”

“If you don’t mind, I’m going straight in.”

Before Denise could utter a protest Harry walked past her and down the corridor. At Julian’s door he knocked briefly and went straight in.

The room was empty. Harry scanned it slowly, as if the barrister might be lurking under his desk or between book shelves, then tried Valerie’s room. No luck there either. She must be out at court. For an instant as he looked round, Harry recalled the nightmare which had woken him earlier that morning. The memory chilled him and he slammed the door on his way out.

“Mr. Hamer’s on a case,” said Denise in reproach. “I could have told you if only you’d waited.”

“Sorry, love. I’m in a hurry. Where is he?”

“The Law Courts. A medical negligence claim.”

“And Valerie?”

“Miss Kaiwar’s over there too. Road traffic.”

Harry raced down the stairs again. The thought that Valerie was in the same building as Hamer gave him a curious sense of unease. Yet nothing dangerous could happen in a court of law. Could it?

He was soon in the Law Courts, checking the typed daily sheets on the noticeboard to find his quarry. Court number three. He reached the room in half a minute and slipped in at the back.

The court was three-quarters full. A young girl in a wheelchair sat at the front, surrounded by friends here to support her case against the doctor whose clumsiness, Harry presumed, had caused her to lose the use of her legs. Her expression was anxious. No, more than that, panic-stricken. And the people with her were also twitching with alarm.

Julian was on his feet. He was speaking slowly and slurring his words. Yes, there could be no mistake. Fumbling foolishly with his papers and slurring his words. Drunk in court? Harry could scarcely believe that this was the same smooth adversary who had stolen the affections of Valerie Kaiwar.

Suddenly a couple of sheets of paper slipped from Julian Hamer’s hands.

“My Lord. Er — please excuse me.”

Julian bent down and scrabbled around on the floor, trying to gather together the bits and pieces he had let fall. In the row behind, a grey-haired woman solicitor had the look of a schoolmarm watching a blue movie. Her opposite number was whispering in the ear of his barrister. Chuckles were audible.

The judge was old Borrington, a kindly soul who liked to snooze in the afternoon. He peered down at Julian Hamer and in the fluting tone which Harry believed to be in itself a qualification for the Bench said, “Mr. Hamer, I wonder… the day is rather warm. And even in this fine building the air-conditioning is not quite as one would wish. Perhaps if we were to adjourn for ten minutes?”

“My — my Lord. I’m most grateful.”

The court rose as the ancient in ermine pottered out and the defendant’s barrister exchanged a smirk with his instructing solicitor. Hamer stumbled to the door, leaving the grey-haired woman to talk in hushed, urgent tones to her client.

“Julian, can I have a word?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you.”

Hamer flushed. He ran a hand through his normally sleek fair hair.

“What about?”

“In private, if you don’t mind.”

“Look, can we do this some other time? You can see I’m right in the middle of a big case. And f… frankly, it’s not going particularly well so far.”

“So I see. But this can’t wait.”

“What’s got into you?”

“Come on.”

Harry grasped Hamer’s arm and propelled him down to the passageway towards the robing rooms. Finding the barristers’ sanctum empty, Harry bundled his captive inside and onto a chair before releasing his grip.

“For God’s sake, man. What’s all this…”

“Claire Stirrup’s dead.”

Hamer’s face was a puzzled blank. Dark rings curved under his eyes. Someone else hasn’t been sleeping, Harry thought.

“I know. We spoke about it.”

“Why did she have to die, Julian?”

“What do you mean? She was murdered by a maniac.”

“The Beast, yes. But her death troubled me. You know, the way The Beast usually chooses blonde-haired girls, whereas Claire was dark.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Here’s another mystery. Claire laid a false trail on that Saturday when she died. Claimed she was going to the library but she didn’t take her books with her. So what was she up to? I wondered for a while if her father had lied about the library himself. Perhaps he might be implicated. He has guilty secrets of his own, I think. Yet I know he’d never harm his own daughter. He worshipped that girl. So Claire lied to him. Why?”

Wearily, Hamer said, “God knows why you’re asking me. The answer is obvious, isn’t it? She was off to see some lad and Daddy wasn’t to know.”

“Possibly. But the date wasn’t with her regular boyfriend. I’m sure he’s telling the truth on that score. And repellent though he is, I don’t think she had eyes for anyone else. Which led me to think that she must have been up to something different.”

“Look, I’m in the midst of a trial. I haven’t the time to indulge in your guessing games. I’m sorry the client’s child was killed, but it’s nothing to do with me.”

Hamer made as if to get up and leave but Harry again put his arm out in restraint.

“Let me finish. Shortly before she died, Claire did one or two odd things. She visited a girl, not a close friend, who had been raped by The Beast a few weeks earlier. Yet Claire was no angel of compassion.”

“Where is all this leading?”

“To you,” Harry said softly.

“To me? I don’t understand.”

“After she met you, she started behaving oddly. I’ve asked myself what could explain everything that happened to her.”

“And?”

“And I’ve come up with the answer. She recognised you.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“She was on the Wirral Way the afternoon her schoolfriend was attacked. Waiting for her boyfriend. Suppose she saw a man hanging around? Thought nothing of it at the time, but later wondered if he might just have been The Beast. And what if when she attended the conference in chambers she realised you were that man?”

Hamer’s cheeks were as white as mortuary sheets.

“This is monstrous speculation. Absolutely monstrous.”

“No wonder she was so preoccupied that day. Imagine coming face to face with The Beast. Jack Stirrup said something about her mooning over you at the conference. He misunderstood what she saw in you. So she spoke to the other girl, the one who was raped, though I doubt she learned much. Then she got in touch with you, tried a little blackmail. Her boyfriend had given her the taste for it. She may have asked for money, I don’t know. But most of all she wanted power over another human being. So when she told you to meet her in West Kirby, she insisted you bring her a dozen red roses. A token of your submission to her will, I guess. She loved the thought of having you on a string. And as a bonus she could make her boyfriend jealous if she flourished the roses under his nose later that afternoon, make him think she had a secret admirer.”

Harry swallowed hard. “She was naive enough to think she could look after herself. For what it was worth, she’d learned self-defence, picked up a bit of karate. She didn’t take any precautions. I suppose she thought of it all as a kind of game. A deadly game, though. You managed somehow to catch her by surprise. I suppose you had your car handy to take her body to New Brighton. Where you scattered the roses over her corpse and left it to rot in the cave.”

“You must be out of your mind.”

Not Hamer speaking, but a newcomer. Someone Harry recognised only too well. He saw in the doorway the figure of Valerie Kaiwar. A thick bundle of documents tied with pink ribbon was under her arm. Her face was burning, not with the heat of the day but with rage.

“Valerie!”

“Yes,” she said, mimicking the surprise in his tone. “Valerie.”

“How much did you hear?”

“Enough to realise you’ve finally gone round the bloody bend.”

“You don’t understand why…”

“Don’t you tell me I don’t understand! Compared to you, I’m a genius of detection. How dare you stand there and calmly accuse Julian of rape and murder?”

“Valerie, the facts…”

“What do you know about facts? Look at Julian, look at him! How can you possibly have the nerve to say those terrible things?”

Hamer buried his head in his hands. He was beginning to shake. The pathetic spectacle reinforced Harry’s conviction. The man was demoralised because he had been found out.

“Everything points to his guilt, Valerie.”

“Crap! You don’t know the first thing about him.”

“I know enough.”

“Really?” Her manner was withering. “Let’s test that bold assertion, shall we? For instance — when do you think The Beast hid Claire Stirrup’s body in the cave?”

“The police can’t be sure. Even if she was killed around mid-day, they reckon her body was kept somewhere — a carboot presumably — until darkness fell and he had the chance to lift it into the cave unobserved.”

“Right. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“Are we?”

“Yes, Sherlock, we are. You want to know why? Listen — all the time when you think he was over on Wirral burying that little girl, he was at home in Liverpool. And I can prove it. Shall I explain? Because I was there too. Yes, you can wipe that look off your face. It’s true. I was with him all evening.”