Martin Edwards - I Remember You

‘And you soon found someone to fit the bill?’

‘Came up trumps straight away, as a matter of fact.’ Stanley Rowe could make even a boast sound like a prophecy of doom.

‘The purchasers being the Ambroses?’

‘Correct. As you know, Geoffrey acts for them. Ambrose is on the board of one of the subsidiaries of the Byzantium Line, who are clients of Maher and Malcolm. He’s being redeployed here from Hull and wanted to find somewhere fast. Even though he haggled, our Rosemary was willing to drop the asking price; I said I thought she could get full whack if she held out for it. But no, Graham-Brown is keen to wrap up his affairs in the UK as soon as he can, it seems. So keen that despite my strong advice to the contrary, they agreed to knock thirty thousand off.’ He shook his head, the gesture of a man who has given up trying to understand human folly.

Harry whistled. ‘A lot of money. I wasn’t aware of that.’

‘No reason why you should be. As soon as the offer was accepted, I told her to give Jim a ring.’

‘Thanks for that. Perhaps I will buy you lunch sometime, after all. I glanced at the particulars you’d drafted in the file. Is the house as impressive as it sounds?’

Stanley Rowe quirked his lips — his equivalent of a mischievous smile. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting I’m one of those estate agents who exaggerates the merits of a property?’

‘Is there any other kind?’

‘How cynical you are. As it happens, I can assure you that it’s a palace. The Ambroses are getting a bargain.’

‘Any idea why Graham-Brown should want to up and leave for the Costa del Crime in such a rush?’

‘I really don’t have the foggiest notion. Perhaps he’s a crook who has pulled off his last heist and wants to while away the rest of his days in the Spanish sunshine with the pulchritudinous Rosemary.’

Many a true word , thought Harry. His interest in the woman was beginning to be matched by his curiosity about her husband. Where did his money come from and what made the couple’s departure to Puerto Banus so urgent as to justify accepting far less for their home than it was worth?

‘You have a dreamer’s look in your eyes, Harry. Don’t keep thinking about the lady. Graham-Brown may be in his dotage and as ugly as sin, for all I know, but my impression is that she wouldn’t worry as long as he keeps her in the style to which she’s become accustomed. With that kind of competition, even a worthy chap like you doesn’t stand a chance.’

Harry grinned at Death Rowe. ‘Where women are concerned, I’ve learned to expect the unexpected.’

They shook hands and Harry made his way back through Chavasse Park to his office, trying to scrub Rosemary Graham-Brown from his mind. The noise from Fenwick Court did the trick. At a distance of a hundred yards, the scream of a single electric drill assaulted his ears and as he turned the corner into the courtyard the cacophony would have made the dancers at the Danger dive for cover.

Parked in front of the entrance to Crusoe and Devlin was the BMW he had seen before. A short distance away stood its owner, Dermot McCray, talking to a couple of his workmen; from the faces of all three Harry could tell that it was heated debate. The drilling stopped, but other members of the gang kept their eyes averted, as if afraid to get involved. He watched as McCray wagged a thick forefinger at the men and, with a parting angry word, stalked back to his car.

Without thinking, Harry hailed him.

‘McCray!’

The name echoed around the courtyard and its owner froze in the act of opening the driver’s door.

McCray’s features might themselves have been put together by a Jerry-builder doing things on the cheap. His cheeks bore the red marks of broken blood vessels and his nose had probably gained its kink in a bar-room brawl. A Rolex glinted from his wrist, but money had not smoothed him. His fists were tightly clenched.

‘Who wants him?’

The hissed words carried a promise of danger. Too late, it occurred to Harry that if McCray was bent on murdering Finbar Rogan, an unrehearsed confrontation was scarcely a prudent way of tackling him. Harry sensed the labourers staring at him. He felt like an unarmed deputy who had chosen the wrong moment to go sightseeing at the OK Corral.

‘My name’s Devlin.’

A good Catholic name, but it did not seem to impress McCray. He slammed the car door shut and took a couple of paces towards Harry.

‘So?’

‘I’m a solicitor.’ Harry jerked a thumb towards his front door. ‘That’s my office.’

McCray glanced at the rusting nameplate.

‘Crusoe and Devlin? Never heard of ’em.’

‘One of my clients is Finbar Rogan.’

McCray spat on the ground. When, after a few moments, he spoke again, he did so slowly, as if straining to keep himself under control.

‘You ought to be more choosy about the company you keep.’

‘Someone’s trying to kill him,’ said Harry.

McCray gave him a long, hard look.

‘Good. Save me the trouble.’

‘Listen. You must…’

With two strides McCray was standing in front of Harry. He dropped a palm as big as a navvy’s shovel on Harry’s shoulder.

‘No, you listen to me, Mr Devlin.’ The voice was guttural. At close quarters, McCray’s face was even more ravaged; deep lines cut into the skin around his eyes and mouth.

‘Tell your client this. He ought to get out of this city and stay out. Because if he crosses my path once more, he’s a dead man. Understand?’

He gave the shoulder a powerful final squeeze, then released his grip, causing Harry to stagger like a punch-drunk boxer before tumbling to the ground. McCray gazed at him scornfully before getting into his car. It revved fiercely then swung back in reverse, coming within inches of Harry’s toes before accelerating out of the courtyard.

One of the workmen laughed, breaking the silence. Someone else joined in, then another. Their derision stung Harry, yet he thought he detected in it relief that McCray had not directed his wrath at them. He clambered to his feet and dusted himself down. Self-esteem damaged more than his scapula, he turned into the office and banged the door, angry with himself for succumbing to impulse. Challenging McCray had achieved nothing and Finbar would not thank him for it. Perhaps he should have opted for the soft life all those years ago and stayed safe and secure with Maher and Malcolm. He might even have learned how to make crime pay.

The phone was ringing as Harry reached his desk. He wasn’t in the mood for more confrontation, whether with clients, opposing solicitors or barristers’ clerks chasing payment of inflated fees, and at first he paid no attention, hoping the call would go away. No chance. Suzanne had seen him slink in and, irked by his failure to check on calls received in his absence, would let him have no hiding place. Finally he surrendered.

‘Who is it?’

‘Mr Rogan,’ the girl said and put Finbar through before Harry could tell her to take a message.

‘Harry, at last! This is the third time I’ve called since midday. The lovely Suzanne said you’d gone to some lecture, but this is no time for swotting. Your clients need help.’

‘What can I do for you?’ asked Harry, not finding it difficult to restrain his enthusiasm.

‘Listen, that bloody Sladdin, you know what he’s done? He’s got a couple of fellers in a car down the road keeping an eye on me. When I went out to the newsagent to see what the Daily Post had to say about the bomb, they followed me down the road. Trying to be discreet, like, but I could tell what they were up to.’

After his humiliating encounter with Dermot McCray, Harry didn’t feel inclined to offer his shoulder for crying on. ‘What do you expect? You’re a Dubliner, there was a bomb under your car, you gave Sladdin the impression you were telling less than the whole truth…’