Martin Edwards - I Remember You

‘I didn’t know myself until this lunchtime.’

‘But you’d left the car parked outside the hotel earlier in the day,’ Sladdin pointed out, ‘so someone following you from home, say, might have had the opportunity to fix the bomb while you were in the city centre with Miss Wilkins.’

‘I didn’t see anyone following me.’

‘Were you expecting to be followed?’

‘Well, no…’

Work it out for yourself, then , Sladdin’s expression insinuated. Aloud, he said, ‘As I explained, we’ll need to speak to Miss Wilkins.’

Harry knew why. The police needed to eliminate the possibility, however unlikely, that Finbar himself had activated the bomb by radio control.

‘She’ll not be able to tell you anything else,’ said Finbar.

Sladdin gave a sceptical grunt.

‘Look, Sophie was awful upset when she left, as Harry here will testify,’ Finbar continued. ‘Can’t blame her, it’s a nasty feeling for anyone — that someone has tried to blow you to smithereens.’

‘Yes,’ said Sladdin. ‘And that’s why, if you can think of anything further that might assist us…’

‘Yeah, yeah, I’ve got the message.’

‘Is that all, Inspector?’ asked Harry. He was anxious to go. If this interview did not end soon, he would be too late for hospital visiting hours and a chance to check on Jim Crusoe’s progress. And at any moment Finbar might say something rash.

So far Sladdin had given no indication that he intended to detain the Irishman; by now he must have received confirmation via New Scotland Yard that Finbar had no known links with terrorists. But the temporary legal powers that had been in force for a generation entitled the police to hold someone on the flimsiest of grounds for forty-eight hours, sometimes more. All Harry could offer in return for Sladdin releasing Finbar was the usual blather about his client being willing to surrender his passport and report to a police station whenever he blew his nose.

The detective considered Harry somebrely. In the end he said, ‘Yes, Mr Devlin, at least for the time being.’

‘So I’m free to go?’ asked Finbar, jumping to his feet in his eagerness to be away.

A poor choice of words for a client with a clear conscience. Harry barely stifled a groan, although Sladdin remained impassive.

‘Free, Mr Rogan? Why, of course. You’ve had a traumatic afternoon. I’m only sorry it has been necessary to keep you for so long. You will understand how anxious we are to identify the culprit as soon as possible — this is hardly a typical case of Liverpudlian car vandalism. And then there is the continuing need to preserve your own safety.’

The warning was as unambiguous as if lettered in blood on Finbar’s front door. He would remain at risk until his unknown antagonist was caught.

‘Have you really no idea who might have planted the bomb?’ asked Harry when they got outside.

‘Didn’t I say so in there?’

‘What you say and what you mean don’t always coincide.’

‘Ah well. Maybe I deserved that.’

‘Too right. Look, I’ve been thinking — you implied yesterday you were involved in some way with the death of this girl Eileen. Have you…’

‘You do too much thinking,’ said Finbar. There was no mistaking his unease. ‘Don’t play the detective with me, Harry. This can’t be anything to do with Eileen McCray. Remember, you’re my brief and my pal; that’s enough of a burden for any man to bear.’

‘Fair enough. Let’s drop the subject for now. What are you going to tell Melissa?’

Finbar relaxed into a conspiratorial smile. ‘Y’know, I’ve been wondering the very same thing. If all else fails, I may have to fall back on the truth.’

‘You must be worried.’

‘Hey, whose side are you on? If I have to come clean, I’ll make it clear Sophie was nothing more than a passing fancy. Going by the fuss she made earlier on, I’ve queered my pitch there good and proper.’

‘Win a few, lose a few, eh?’

Finbar clapped him on the back. ‘You took the words off the tip of my tongue. Tell you what, we’ll nip round to the Dock Brief and have a quick pint. You can help me summon up the courage to face the music.’

‘Sorry, I must go and see how Jim is. Besides, you go home smelling like a brewery and the music will make Wagner sound like The Cuckoo Waltz .’

‘All right, all right. For once I’ll take your advice. Jases, I pay enough for it! Give my best to Jim.’

Harry was halfway to the hospital before he remembered that the last couple of bills he had sent to Finbar were still outstanding. The last time he’d given the Irishman a reminder, he’d been fobbed off with a promise to put a cheque in the post. Credit control wasn’t Harry’s strong point; it was a wonder he’d never been appointed Chancellor of the Exchequer.

A Nurse Ratchet clone whose glare was sufficient to inspire any patient into an instant recovery gave Harry terse directions to Jim’s ward. In the maze of white-walled corridors he soon got hopelessly lost and might have found himself attending a birth had he not been rescued by a dreadlocked porter who sent him to the other end of the building.

Harry was shocked by the sight of his partner. Jim was wired to a drip and resembled a character from a Christmas television campaign warning about danger and death on the road. He and Heather were having one of those jerky conversations about nothing in particular which seem so common at hospital bedsides. Harry noticed that Heather kept snatching glances at her husband’s battered face, then looking hurriedly away with thinly veiled dismay.

‘Not as bad as it looks, old son.’ The voice was croaky but audible.

‘It couldn’t be, really, could it?’ asked his wife.

‘I suppose you’ll be skiving off tomorrow as well, then?’ said Harry.

Jim made a ghastly attempt at a grin. ‘Give you a chance to do a bit of proper work for a change!’

‘Conveyancing and probate? Piece of cake. In fact, if all your clients are as lovely as Mrs. Graham-Brown, I’ll be putting in for a permanent transfer.’

‘Oh yes? And who is Mrs. Graham-Brown?’ asked Heather.

‘A lady who fancies leaving Liverpool for the south of Spain,’ said Jim with an effort. ‘Strange, you may think, but it takes all sorts. And Crusoe and Devlin certainly has all sorts of clients.’

‘Including victims of terrorist outrages,’ said Harry. ‘You’ll never guess where I’ve been until now.’

He told them about the afternoon’s excitement. Jim absorbed himself in the story, his craggy features darkening as Harry described Finbar’s infidelity and apparent unwillingness to tell all he knew.

‘The Irish connection, you suppose?’

‘What else? Finbar may have upset a few husbands in his time, but the time-honoured remedy is a fight behind a pub. Same goes for discarded mistresses. I can see someone slashing his tyres; even, maybe, torching his studio. But car bombs are something else.’

‘Did you know he had links with terrorists?’

‘I don’t even know it now. He disclaims all knowledge, except for this old acquaintance he tattooed in days gone by who was killed by the other side a couple of years back. But there must be some terrorist connection. After all…’

His voice trailed away as a thought struck him.

‘Watch him,’ said Jim Crusoe to Heather in a stage whisper. ‘When Harry gets that inspired look, everyone around ought to dive for cover. Solved the mystery, then?’

Harry said nothing, but his mind was working frantically. He had realised that the mysterious Eileen’s surname was the same as that of a man in a tough business traditionally associated with the republican movement: a man who might have access to bomb-making equipment.