Martin Edwards - I Remember You

Dermot McCray. The Irish builder and ‘old acquaintance’ whom Finbar, at Fenwick Court, had been so anxious to avoid.

The notice in the foyer of Empire Hall announced the title of the lunchtime seminar in garish purple: how to establish a small company in liverpool.

‘Easy,’ said Harry to his companion. ‘Start with a big company, then sit back and wait.’

The man by his side chuckled, a reaction as unexpected as a snigger from a corpse. Stanley Rowe was a cadaverous individual whose pallor and mournful expression had earned him an appropriate sobriquet. But life hadn’t been too hard on Death Rowe; he had sold his estate agency to an insurance company with more money than sense at the height of the property boom in the late eighties and had bought it back for half the price after the bottom fell out of the market a couple of years later.

Some bright spark on the city council had designated this as ‘Liverpool Business Day’ — although cynics argued that, given the state of the city’s industry, twenty minutes would have sufficed. Jim had booked to attend a series of events due to be held here, ranging from a breakfast meeting to an early evening exhibition. In a moment of weakness at his partner’s bedside the previous night, Harry had volunteered to act as stand-in for at least one session, with the idea of picking up a few clients and keeping their professional contacts warm.

‘I see the discussion is being led by Geoffrey Willatt,’ said Rowe. ‘I suppose your paths seldom cross?’

‘Not if I can help it,’ said Harry, ‘but he was once my principal.’

Rowe’s skeletal features twitched and his eyes widened a fraction; it was his equivalent of registering amazement. It was as if he’d heard the Krays claiming to be on first name terms with the Queen.

‘You trained with Maher and Malcolm? Good God.’

‘How they ever came to offer me articles, I’ll never fathom. It’s not as if my family was named in Debrett or I took a double first from Cambridge. And I met Jim whilst I worked there, believe it or not. Of course, we both escaped long before there was any chance of our making our fortune. I can’t say either of us ever learned much from old Geoffrey about how to run a practice funded on legal aid and house sales.’

They walked into the room where the seminar was being held and sat at the back. A glance around the audience suggested that solicitors, accountants, stockbrokers and financiers outnumbered Liverpool’s would-be entrepreneurs by at least five to one.

Geoffrey Willatt had been born, Harry suspected, in a pinstripe suit. Senior partner of one of the largest legal practices outside London, he was Chairman of the Law Society’s Standing Committee on Legal Etiquette and author of a racy little monograph entitled The Property Lawyer’s Vade-Mecum . Now he spoke about investment, cash flow and debt recovery with his accustomed authority; but for Harry it was like listening to the owner of Fortnum and Mason offer advice on the running of a corner shop. As the talk shifted to terms of trading and employment costs, he closed his eyes. He did not doze — although the temptation was strong — but pondered again whether Dermot McCray might want Finbar Rogan dead.

Suppose Eileen was McCray’s wife and Finbar had loved her and left her. If she had killed herself out of desperation or remorse, McCray’s motive for revenge attacks could hardly be stronger. Whatever Finbar’s reasons for refusing to disclose the truth about Eileen, Harry wanted him to start talking. If he did not, more room might be needed in the mortuary.

As the seminar came to an end, people began to move away. At the door, a young woman with a severe hair style and a grave manner pressed a glossy brochure into his hand. ‘Do talk to us if you’d like to make a success of your business. May I ask what line you are in?’

Harry glanced at the logo on the cover of the brochure. It was a hand-out from Maher and Malcolm.

‘I’m making a career out of crime,’ he said.

She shot him a nervous glance and turned bright red.

Harry took pity on her. When he’d been an articled clerk, for a solicitor to advertise had been a monstrous breach of ethics. Nowadays P.R. was practically part of the finals course.

‘I’m a solicitor,’ he explained.

She stared in disbelief at his scuffed shoes before remembering her manners. Nervously, she cleared her throat. ‘I’m afraid we only handle white-collar misdemeanours.’

Of course. Corporate fraud and insider trading: Maher and Malcolm would never become involved in anything down-market. In their austere yet elegant offices, a legal aid form would seem as out of place as a copy of Playboy .

Outside, Harry caught up Stanley Rowe and handed him the brochure. ‘With my compliments. I’m sure you’ll find it tastefully designed. But if it tells you anything worth reading, I’ll buy you lunch at the Ensenada.’

The estate agent flicked through the pages. There were more photographs than lines of text, with acres of space on each page.

‘Your money’s safe,’ he said in his funereal tone. ‘I take it you are not a believer in practice development?’

‘Truth is, I’m hopeless at marketing. Today’s been a write-off. I left my business cards in the office and to make matters worse, over lunch I sat next to a banker who’d make the speaking clock seem like sparkling company. When I confessed I didn’t know a mezzanine agreement from a junk bond he wrote me off faster than a Third World debt.’

‘Honesty from a litigator? Even Jim would have bluffed a little. How is he, by the way?’

‘You’ve heard about his smash?’

‘Yes, sounds dreadful. Is he making progress? I must admit, I was particularly bothered because I’d just sent him a client. She was in a hurry to exchange and complete and it crossed my mind that Jim’s accident might cause problems.’

To say nothing of delay in paying commission , thought Harry.

‘Don’t worry — Jim’s on the road to recovery. And we’ve got his work under control.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Who was the client?’

‘Rather a lovely lady, as a matter of fact.’ Rowe’s sombre expression lightened for a moment. ‘Name of Graham-Brown. Rosemary of that ilk.’

‘She’s been in to see me already,’ said Harry. ‘Know much about her?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Interested, that’s all.’

Rowe tapped the side of his nose with solemn significance. ‘Beware Mr Graham-Brown, Harry.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m not running off with her to Puerto Banus — though if the chance arose, I wouldn’t say no. But who is Graham-Brown? Do you know him?’

‘The name rang a bell when she came in to see me. I believe he’s in financial services. I’ve never met the man or acted for either of them before.’

‘How did they choose you to handle the sale of their place — personal recommendation?’

‘Yellow Pages, more likely. I recall she said she and her husband preferred dealing with a smaller firm: more personal treatment, more willing to fit in with clients’ special requirements than a bigger outfit. And when she asked for the name of a firm of solicitors, small yet competent at conveyancing, I mentioned Crusoe and Devlin. With emphasis on the Crusoe — no offence.’

‘None taken. High finance is far from being my only area of ignorance. You say “special requirements”. Did she have anything particular in mind?’

‘Time was of the essence, that’s the main thing that sticks in my mind. She didn’t want any hassle with signboards or adverts in the Press. She was keen to know if I could use personal contacts to find out if any of our competitors had a client looking for that type of property. Some executive from outside the city looking for a company move would be ideal, she said.’