Yesterday's papers

Chapter Eight

The telephone was ringing as Harry walked into his room after lunch. He had slipped in through the back entrance to New Commodities House, hoping to avoid Suzanne’s eye. No chance: she was a mistress of all the receptionist’s black arts and knew intuitively when he was within her reach.

He glared at the set steeling himself not to answer, but as usual Suzanne’s persistence prevailed. Swearing under his breath, he picked up the receiver.

‘Mr Ernest Miller for you.’

He felt a sudden foreboding as the careful voice came on the line, enunciating every syllable with sly precision.

‘Mr Devlin, I heard the lunchtime news on Radio Merseyside about this morning’s dramatic development in the Kevin Walter case. My congratulations. You must be very pleased.’

‘Kind of you to ring.’

‘Ah, do I detect a touch of irony? Well, I must confess that there was another purpose behind my call. I did wonder whether you might have had the opportunity to give any thought to my request for your assistance.’

‘Didn’t you say there was no hurry?’

‘Indeed, indeed. But since we spoke yesterday evening I have talked to Edwin Smith’s former lady love, Renata Grierson — or Yates, to use the maiden name by which he knew her. Most intriguing. As a result of our telephone conversation, I am now absolutely convinced of Smith’s innocence. All the more reason, therefore, for me to press on with my enquiries.’

‘And what exactly did she tell you?’

‘If you do not mind, I would prefer not to discuss it on the telephone. But I am certainly willing to reveal something of my researches when we next meet, if you wish, and as a separate matter I have a little legal business with which you may be able to assist me.’

‘Don’t tell me you’ve been arrested?’

‘No, no,’ said Miller, chuckling. ‘That would never arise, I can assure you. My need for help is much more prosaic — I think at my time of life I ought to make a will and I have no acquaintance with any other solicitors’ firm. Not, of course, that I have a great deal to leave.’

Harry resisted the temptation to say that he had never known a client, however affluent, who actually claimed to have a great deal to leave. ‘Fine, shall we get together sometime?’

‘Perhaps we could meet as soon as you have ascertained whether you can trace the old Tweats file.’

‘It’s sitting in front of me as we speak.’

‘Already? Marvellous! I realise that you are a busy man and I am most grateful that my request…’

‘I wanted to satisfy my own curiosity,’ interrupted Harry.

‘And did you?’

‘No, I’m left with more questions than answers.’

‘Excellent! So at least you appreciate that it is by no means a straightforward case. May I ask if anything struck you in particular?’

‘Edwin Smith withdrew his confession.’

‘I see, I see. How interesting.’

Harry had the odd feeling that his news had hardly come as a bombshell to Miller. It was as if the man had already had an inkling of what the file would reveal and his satisfaction lay in having his supposition confirmed.

‘Cyril Tweats wasn’t impressed by the retraction and neither, by the look of things, was the barrister he instructed on Smith’s behalf. In any event, Smith soon abandoned any attempt to claim innocence. By the time of the trial he seems to have been reconciled to pleading guilty.’

‘But Mr Tweats’ judgment was not always sound.’

‘You speak as if you knew him.’

‘Oh no.’ Miller became cautious. ‘I assure you I never met the fellow. I can only go by his reputation.’

Harry felt once again he was not being told the whole truth, but he let it pass. ‘You’re right, as it happens. Cyril took pains in his correspondence with Smith’s mother to discourage her from any thought that her son had not committed the crime. He didn’t probe deeply — in fact, he didn’t probe at all. But whether probing would have yielded any results, we can only speculate.’

‘And speculation is fascinating, is it not? Very well, can we arrange to meet? You may even be agreeable to my having a look at the documents in the file. Where would suit you?’

‘Anywhere, provided it’s not in the Wallace. I prefer not to have to fight for breath when I sup a pint.’

‘In that case, let us try talking in the open air. I can suggest a perfect venue. Why don’t we meet at Sefton Park itself?’

‘You want us to become murder tourists?’

‘There is surely some appeal in our visiting the scene of the crime together. I hope my suggestion does not seem too macabre. I prefer to think of myself as having a sense of place — and of history. Besides, it is a pleasant spot and not inconvenient for a busy man working in the city centre. Could we say one o’clock tomorrow at the seats by the side of the lake nearest to the Aigburth entrance? By then, who knows, I may have gleaned further information. I am hoping to speak to Carole’s boyfriend, the pop singer, this afternoon. I shall be fascinated to hear what he has to say.’

Not for the first time, Harry felt repelled and fascinated by Ernest Miller in roughly equal measure. Of course, Miller was using him and had judged that the promise of further revelations would prove irresistible — but Harry did not deceive himself. The truth was that he had no wish to resist.

As the clock struck six, he walked into the Dock Brief to find Ken Cafferty standing at the bar, glass in hand, chatting to a barmaid whose cleavage was an incitement to riot.

‘Here you are, love, this is the feller who’s paying. He’s had a good day in court, it ought to be drinks all round.’ He grinned at Harry. ‘I gather Paddy Vaulkhard excelled himself this morning. The word is that your people must be heading for a record award. They’ll be set up for life.’

‘It will be spent within the year.’

‘Paying off your fees?’

‘The taxpayer is funding this litigation, as you well know. Lately, a horde of financial advisers have been flitting round the Walters like flies over a corpse, but the investment strategy hasn’t been devised that could constrain Jeannie’s urge to spend, spend, spend. When we parted she was talking about buying a yacht and mooring it in the Mersey Marina.’

Ken put his hand in the inside pocket of the overcoat he had draped over an adjacent bar stool and withdrew a bulky brown envelope. Furtive as a double agent, he slid it across the counter.

‘As promised. I hope you realise I’ve risked my job to honour our agreement. These are confidential documents. Not to be removed out of the office and all that crap. Summary dismissal even for first-time offenders.’

‘I’ll fight your case if they sack you.’

‘I won’t pretend I’m reassured. You’re the kind of brief who ends up in the same cell as his client.’

Harry picked up the envelope and pulled out a thick wad of papers in an elastic band. ‘This is your filing system?’

‘Technology may have revolutionised the newspaper industry, but pockets of resistance still remain. The management keep threatening to put all these bits and pieces on microfilm, but at the moment we’re still in the dark ages, thank God. Personally, I’d be happy to scrap all the technology and go back to two-finger typing on a rusty old Remington. You know what they say: to err is human, but to really bugger things up requires a computer.’

‘You’re a man after my own heart.’

‘I know, that’s what bothers me.’

The papers comprised old cuttings on which dates had been scrawled in ballpoint and a few flimsy sheets of typed stories in draft. Harry was immediately entranced. The first item in the pack, headed GIRL STRANGLED IN SEFTON PARK, set the shock-horror tone for everything that followed. During the first few hours of the investigation, the police had given very little away and Harry, digressing for a moment, marvelled that in those days the public respect for the bobby on the beat had apparently been so much stronger than today, when every force had its own slick public relations team. Perhaps there was a lesson in that.

Even at a distance of thirty years, he could almost hear the exultant shouts in the newsroom when the journalists learned that the victim was not only pretty but also had a famous father. It must have seemed like a stroke of luck, giving an added dimension to a tragic killing, making it certain that the story would run and run.

Guy Jeffries’ photograph appeared in many of the cuttings that followed. Even in smudged black-and-white portraits that might have been taken by a boy scout using a box brownie for the very first time, Guy’s appearance was compelling. With his thick shock of dark hair, even teeth and aquiline nose, he gave the impression that he expected admiration and flattery as his due, that he had no doubt he was a man of destiny. There was just one picture that told a different story; unlike the others, it had been taken on the day after the murder, when a persistent paparazzo had caught him leaving his home by the back door. His head was bowed and his shoulders hunched as if in acknowledgement of defeat. A quote on one of the cuttings seemed to capture his mood: I should never have let her go. Harry felt a flash of sympathy; he knew all too well the pain of losing a loved one to a sudden and senseless slaying.

In the reports, Jeffries was described variously as a celebrated academic, a best-selling political author and a noted left-wing thinker. His two principal books, Our Sterile Society and The Identity of a Socialist, received more mentions than a thousand press releases, launch parties and literary luncheons could guarantee. Profiles traced the upward graph of his career: from being the cleverest boy in the school, through outstanding achievement as a student, to a position of eminence in the intellectual, literary and political firmaments. Like his friend Clive Doxey, he had been a private adviser to Harold Wilson and there was even talk that he might stand for Parliament when the scandal-wracked Conservatives finally called a general election. The world was his for the taking.

Yet beneath the recitation of Jeffries’ accomplishments and the florid accounts of his distress at the loss of his only child, Harry thought he detected a trace of journalistic schadenfreude.

He said as much to Ken, who scratched his nose. ‘From what I can gather, he was never flavour of the month at our paper. He and Doxey both used to write soapbox columns for the other lot and the editor we had in those days equated a socialist government with barbarians at the gates of Rome. Besides, Jeffries had it all, didn’t he? Good looks and a great career. Nothing delights a lesser mortal more than to see a paragon finding out the hard way that life can be unkind to everyone.’

Harry gave him a sharp look but said nothing. He flicked through the pieces of paper, pausing whenever he came to a new twist in the tale or a photograph of one of the cast of characters. Now and then he allowed himself to be sidetracked by snippets from other stories on the reverse of the clippings. They gave him a flavour of the times. The Great Train Robbers were on trial; in South Africa, a lawyer named Mandela had been jailed for life. Mary Quant said that Paris fashion was out of date and Mods and Rockers fought on Clacton Beach. The Beatles took New York by storm and back at home Cilla Black topped the hit parade with ‘Anyone Who Had A Heart’. Ah, the sixties, an almost mythical age when the world seemed full of infinite possibilities. Harry found himself feeling nostalgic for a time he could not even remember.

So far as the Sefton Park Strangling was concerned, the police had made their breakthrough quickly. The arrest had been a lead story and the details soon emerged. First Smith’s age was given, then his job — he worked as a storeman for a firm of builder’s merchants — then the fact he lived in the same road as the victim. As soon as his name was released, his picture was printed.

Harry stared at the man who was supposed to have killed Carole Jeffries. Smith had freckles and prominent eyes, no chin but a giraffe’s neck to compensate; he seemed like someone born to be suspected of anything and everything.

His victim, on the other hand, was worth looking at. Day after day photographs of Carole Jeffries appeared. Her face would have sold papers even without its connection with sudden and violent death. Despite the poor quality reproduction of old snapshots, Harry could recognise the beauty in her cast of features as well as the artful way she lowered her eyelashes for the camera.

‘I see she is described as “fun-loving”,’ he said.

‘Damning, eh? I was never a believer in the de mortuis school of thought. I think we can make an educated guess that she was a bit of a slag.’

Harry didn’t hide his resentment at the casual slander. ‘She was only sixteen, for Christ’s sake.’

Ken shrugged. ‘Even in those days, some kids grew up fast. She’d left school, don’t forget, and taken a job. Found herself a boyfriend who was adding a few decibels to the Mersey Sound.’

‘Look, even Edwin Smith’s own confession didn’t suggest she led him on. Quite the opposite. The red mist descended because she didn’t show any interest in him.’

‘So you’ve tracked the old file down? Does it cast any light?’

‘He retracted his original statement at one point, but Cyril Tweats managed to persuade him he was really guilty, after all.’

Ken laughed. ‘Good old Cyril. How he kept his practising certificate, I’ll never know. Perhaps the truth is, he did keep practising throughout his career. He just never got it right.’

‘There’s something else. My informant now believes he has confirmation that Smith was no murderer.’

‘Does he, by God?’

‘Which raises the question — if Smith didn’t kill Carole, who did?’

‘Don’t tell me you seriously expect to find out?’

Harry spread his arms. ‘You never know till you try.’

‘You can’t tell me that even if by some chance Smith was innocent, you could trace whatever passing maniac happened to strangle the girl and then elude detection for thirty years.’

‘Suppose,’ said Harry, articulating an idea which had been germinating in his mind since his meeting with Miller, ‘suppose it wasn’t a random attack. Suppose instead someone Carole knew had a motive for murdering her — or maybe just did it in a fit of rage?’

‘And by a stroke of luck found that Smith was ready, willing and able to take the blame?’

Harry leaned forward. ‘It’s not impossible. Suddenly the case becomes interesting, don’t you think? Maybe what happened in Sefton Park all those years ago was the perfect murder — committed by mistake.’

On arriving back in his flat late that evening, Harry picked up the television remote control and zapped his way from programme to programme whilst he tried to summon the strength to make some black coffee. His session with Ken had lasted longer than either of them had intended and the cold blast of the night air on the walk home had not been strong enough to focus his thoughts.

He moved quickly on from a Swedish film with subtitles, scarcely pausing to take in the highlights of a welterweight boxing match or an alternative comedian who talked a lot about farting and impotence. Harry yawned. Wasn’t Chinatown due on tonight? He had seen it half a dozen times and on each new viewing he gleaned something fresh from it.

The regional newscast carried the story of the sergeant’s collapse in court. His present condition was described as ‘serious but stable’, which in Harry’s experience of hospitalspeak probably meant that he was already being measured for a shroud. A mouthpiece for the police authority, interviewed briefly, described the sergeant as ‘a dedicated officer’. He looked as glum as if he was expecting the compensation for Kevin Walter to be deducted from his personal salary.

But there would be no payday for Edwin Smith, even if Miller was right to believe in his innocence. Perhaps, thought Harry, that was all the more reason to care about clearing his name, if justice demanded it.

Outside, a gale began to howl. He could hear it even through the double glazing. The heating was on, but he felt a slight chill. He knew it came from the lack of someone warm to share the night with. Since Liz had walked out on him, he had had affairs, but few relationships that had meant anything. He found himself thinking about Kim Lawrence, then reminded himself that the word in the law library was that she was involved with a social worker. A bloody waste, he told himself, though he was honest enough to admit that even if she was here beside him and in the mood for love, he would probably want to keep her up for hours, talking about the Sefton Park case.

Eventually he began to doze and when he awoke with a start, he realised he had missed much of the film. Yet he could still take pleasure in the way Polanski captured the suffocating atmosphere of thirties LA during a drought and in Jack Nicholson’s private eye discovering a conscience. J.J. Gittes’ quest to expose the corruption of a wealthy businessman brought, not salvation, but death to a woman he had begun to love. The last thing he remembered before he drifted off to sleep again was the sense of menace he felt when he heard Nicholson’s nasal tones.

‘You may think you know what you’re dealing with, but believe me, you don’t.’