Martin Edwards - I Remember You

‘You ought to take care in a place like that. You may find yourself in the same bar as some of our most famous bank robbers.’

‘Just like downtown Liverpool, in fact,’ she said.

They both laughed.

‘You could say that only the failures stick around here,’ he said. ‘I had a client only last week who was arrested after leaving his wallet and all his credit cards in the building society he’d tried to hold up. Needless to say, his gun was a toy and they shooed him out empty-handed.’

She laughed again. He thought he saw a spark of interest in the brown eyes.

‘You have a fascinating job,’ she said. ‘Selling our house must seem simple — compared with all the crime and everything. But you don’t foresee any last minute hitches, I hope?’

‘No, your buyers — Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose. — are willing and they seem to have the money in place. You’re not in a chain. It’s the perfect situation.’

‘That’s what I wanted to hear.’ She slid a document in a plastic folder across the desk. ‘Here’s the contract. Stuart and I have both scrawled our signatures where Mr. Crusoe pencilled our initials. All right?’

‘Fine. I can exchange for you now, so you’ll have a deal. Then we’ll get the draft conveyance for approval and requisitions on title.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Sounds complicated. Mr. Crusoe reckoned it could all be done and dusted within a week of exchange — maybe less.’

‘No problem,’ Harry said. ‘Formalities only. I’ll phone you to confirm all’s going smoothly.’

‘No, you can’t do that. We’re ex-directory. My husband — in his line of business he values his privacy, even where his professional advisers are concerned. Listen, I can call in again if you like.’

‘I’ll look forward to it.’

‘Me too,’ she said.

Harry showed her to the front door. As they shook hands again, he had the impression that this time the stronger pressure came from her. But married life had proved that, where women were concerned, he was a wishful-thinker. She might be interested in him, or simply playing a game; he did not expect he would ever find out.

Suzanne caught his eye and mouthed, ‘Mr. Rogan on the line for you.’

‘I’ll take it here … is that you, Finbar? Where the hell are you?’

‘In the Hotel Blue Moon.’

Finbar was gasping, as if someone had dropped a heavy stone onto his chest, squeezing all the breath and good humour out of him. Harry knew the Blue Moon: a no-star establishment, in a side street round the corner from Mount Pleasant.

‘What are you doing there?’ he demanded. ‘Melissa’s really on the warpath. You make the Scarlet Pimpernel look like a stick-in-the-mud. And what in God’s name is the matter with you? You sound as though you’re dying.’

‘Harry, it’s a miracle I’m not already dead.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Someone wants to murder me.’

‘Does he realise he’ll have to join the queue?’

‘Listen, I’m serious.’

Suddenly Harry believed it. He’d never known Finbar sound so desperate.

‘Go on.’

‘First I had the fire. Okay, I couldn’t believe someone was out to attack me personally. But now there’s nothing surer.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘There’s been a bastard of an explosion here. It’s a miracle I’ve not been carted off to the mortuary.’

‘For Chrissake, how come?’

Finbar exhaled noisily.

‘Some fucking maniac has only strapped a bomb to the bottom of my car.’

‘See the crack in the mirror?’ asked Finbar, jerking his thumb towards the dressing table at the other end of the hotel bedroom. The splintered glass distorted his features, making him seem more Mephistophelian than ever. ‘It’s not shoddy furnishing, though in this place you might not believe it. The blast did that. And as for the window panes…’

He ground his heel into the shards scattered across the carpet. Sitting on the unmade bed, Harry grimaced as he heard the woman being sick in the bathroom next door: a violent, prolonged retching. Through the partition walls they could hear every movement, every groan.

For the sake of something to say, he asked, ‘Where were you when you heard the explosion?’ As soon as the words left his mouth, he realised it was a silly question.

Finbar raised his eyes skywards in disbelief. ‘Come on, Harry! You don’t think I invited a lovely lady like Sophie here to give me a few tips on how to be a better radio interviewee, surely to God? We were in bed, where d’you think?’

A thought occurred to Finbar. For the first time since Harry’s arrival, the mischievous grin reappeared.

‘I’ve heard of the earth moving — but that was ridiculous.’

As he spoke, the bathroom door opened to reveal Sophie Wilkins, pale and tear-stained and wiping her nose with a tissue. Her beige silk blouse was carelessly buttoned and Harry noticed a ladder in her sexy black tights. He could scarcely recognise the self-confident media person he had met earlier that morning.

‘For God’s sake!’ She spat out the words with a hostility that smacked both men to attention. ‘What’s the matter with you? Your car has been blown up by a bomb and all you can do is crack puerile jokes. Well, if that makes you feel macho, fine, but I’m not staying around here to pander to your bloody male ego.’

Finbar made a movement towards her. ‘Sophie, love, don’t go. At times like these, a man and a woman…’

She brushed away his hand as it rested for an instant on her shoulder. Red blotches had appeared on her cheeks.

‘Spare me the words of wisdom, Finbar. They belong in a Christmas cracker, not in my life.’

‘Sophie, listen to me,’ said Harry. ‘You’ve had a hell of a shock — both of you have. And how do you think Finbar feels? Neither of you is thinking straight. Why don’t you stay a while? The police will want to talk to you.’

The anger that lit her eyes told him he had said the wrong thing.

‘That’s all I need! Having to explain to PC Plod why I was on my back beneath a tattooist with the gift of the gab and not much else when I should have been at work! Do you realise I told Nick Folley I had a migraine? I feel a thousand times worse now than if I’d been forced to spend the day in a darkened room.’

Outside a siren howled.

‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ she said bitterly. ‘And all because I was weak and let myself be blarneyed into a quick leg-over! God, I hate myself sometimes. But not half as much as I hate you, Finbar.’

‘Sophie darling, be reasonable.’

‘ Reasonable ? Find someone else to be reasonable with. You have too many enemies, Finbar, too many people want you dead. Well, I’m not going to share your coffin.’

‘Sophie, love, you need to calm down. Do that and everything will be fine. I’ll see you…’

‘Not if I see you first! And don’t “love” me! I’m not another Melissa, you know, neurotic and clinging. Even she must see sense after this. You’re dangerous to know.’

She teetered for a second, as if her legs were about to give way, then turned and slammed the door behind her.

‘Hysterical,’ said Finbar. ‘You can understand it. She doesn’t mean what she says.’ He sighed. ‘Jases, Harry, what a mess.’

For once, Harry thought, his client was erring on the side of understatement. He walked over to the window to view Finbar’s car which had been parked in an unmade entry on the other side of Braddock Street. A police cordon now sealed off the scene of the crime, but did not disguise the extent of the devastation. Smoke thickened the air; even up here, there was no ignoring its pungent whiff. Firefighters had been pumping water on to what was left of the car body and a river was beginning to stretch down the street, where fragments recognisably belonging to the old red Granada had been scattered over a wide radius. Uniformed policemen had blocked off traffic at both ends of the street and were now waving away any vehicles or passers-by who stopped to linger. The hum of their walkie-talkies filled the air. Harry guessed they must be nervous, wondering if a second bomb had been planted, waiting for the Special Branch to arrive, not wanting to take any chances in the meantime. He himself had only been able to enter the Blue Moon by following Finbar’s telephone directions to an unmarked basement door in an extension at the rear of the building.