Martin Edwards - I Remember You

‘I’m a bloody victim ! The bomb was meant for me!’

‘Look, you’re not dealing with a fool. Sladdin would be negligent if he didn’t set up some form of surveillance.’

At the other end of the line Finbar sighed. ‘Fat lot of comfort you are. How long is this likely to go on?’

‘Till Sladdin finds out who has it in for you. You could speed things up by coming clean.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Come on, Finbar, let’s not play games. People don’t have their premises burned down and their cars bombed simply for dropping litter in the street. Until you take me into your confidence, there isn’t much I can do to save your skin from Dermot McCray.’

‘What?’ Finbar sounded taken aback. ‘Why do you mention him?’

‘I had a brief encounter with him outside the office a couple of minutes ago. He’s not your number one fan. And if he’s mixed up with terrorists…’

‘Harry, for God’s sake, don’t keep on about bloody terrorists, will you? You’re as bad as Sladdin.’

‘You seriously expect me to believe it’s got nothing to do with that? I wasn’t born yesterday. Okay, I realise it isn’t policy to cross the people back in Ireland, far less go bleating to the boys in blue. I can see why you’re keeping mum while you try to straighten things out with someone who might be able to rein in McCray. But if you’re not prepared to let me into the secret…’

‘Ah, I told you not to act the detective. I know it’s your favourite game and you’ve had your successes, but leave this one alone, mate, for your sake as well as mine. I need a live Perry Mason, not a dead Sam Spade.’

‘All Perry’s clients were innocent. I should be so lucky.’

Down the line came Finbar’s familiar burst of laughter. He could never be out of temper for long.

‘Never mind. Even he would have had his work cut out if he’d practised in Liverpool. Listen, are you going to the exhibition in the Empire Hall tonight?’

‘I was meaning to avoid it. Jim had offered to take a turn at the local Legal Group’s stand, but I’ve had as much as I can take of Liverpool Business Day after listening to my old boss pontificate about Boom or Bust this lunchtime.’

‘Oh ye of little faith. It’s only a couple of minutes from your flat. Why don’t you show up, even if only to have a drink with me and Melissa? She’ll be on the Radio Liverpool stand for half an hour this evening.’

‘Are you two still together?’

‘Of course. Why ever not?’

‘I don’t know how you do it,’ Harry said, half grudging, half amused.

‘Well, she doesn’t know Sophie was with me in the Blue Moon. As far as she’s concerned, I’d just called for a chat with my old mate Reg when my car was blown to bits outside.’

‘Finbar, you’re less trustworthy than half the criminals I’ve ever met.’

‘Listen, I’m only a lad with a liking for the ladies. And you know what they say about sex in Dublin, don’t you? There it is, the loveliest little thing in the world and they had to go and make a sin out of it.’

‘So when does the lad finally get to grow up?’

‘Harry, I’m starting to think that at my age, I’m too old to grow up. So shall I see you tonight?’

‘If your enemies don’t beat me to it.’

As Harry rang off, his secretary came in bearing a thick brown envelope.

‘Hand delivery from Maher and Malcolm.’

‘Thanks.’ He slit it open and scanned the contents. ‘Can you fetch me the Graham-Brown sale file from Jim’s room, please?’

‘Conveyancing?’ Lucy’s expression of bewilderment made him feel like Dracula asking her to pass the garlic. ‘Wouldn’t you like Sylvia to handle it?’

‘No need,’ he said with dignity. ‘I’m beginning to think I have hidden talents as a property lawyer.’

Lucy turned on her way out. ‘I’d feel safer having the Boston Strangler give me a neck massage!’

After she had shut the door, Harry studied Geoffrey Willatt’s letter. The problem which the Ambroses had raised seemed a simple one: the rear garden of the Graham-Browns’ house appeared to dog-leg around a couple of old horse chestnut trees. The plans with the deeds — which Harry had copied and attached to the contract — indicated that the trees fell inside the boundaries of the property. Actual observation, however, suggested the contrary and there was no fence, hedge or other dividing line at that spot to put the matter beyond doubt. It was the kind of discrepancy which would prove a fertile source of future dispute if not sorted out now.

Harry’s first instinct was to yawn, but after a moment he brightened. There was only one way to wrap the matter up with the speed which both buyers and sellers demanded.

He would have to pay Rosemary a visit.

It would need to be a surprise visit, too, given that he did not have her ex-directory number and that if the transaction was to proceed as promptly as required, he couldn’t afford to write her a letter or wait for her to telephone him. He took one look at the pile of correspondence plaintively hoping for attention and decided there was no time like the present — for calling on Rosemary Graham-Brown, that was, rather than getting stuck in to the tedium of deskwork. He buzzed Lucy and announced his intentions.

‘But what about…’

‘One has to prioritise,’ he said, recalling a bit of jargon from a practice management article he had once read in The Law Society’s Gazette . ‘This is a private-paying client, an urgent matter. Let Suzanne know I’ve gone out the back way.’ He didn’t relish braving the switchboard girl’s wrath again. Restored to good humour, he added, ‘I may be some time.’

The drive to Formby did not take long. It was a crisp afternoon and he felt excited at the prospect of seeing Rosemary again. Presumably her husband would now be at his office: there might be an opportunity for a chat over a cuppa once the business of the boundary was out of the way. Moreover, he would have the chance to satisfy his curiosity whilst enjoying her company.

Crow’s Nest House stood on a wooded slope, commanding a view of the Irish Sea. Set back from the road and reached via an unmade track which the council had never adopted, it conformed to the odd principle that the better the property, the worse the access. As his MG bumped from pothole to pothole he began to wish he had walked up from the main road. Rounding the last tree-lined corner, he passed through open wrought-iron entrance gates and took his first look at the home Stuart and Rosemary Graham-Brown were in such a hurry to sell.

For once Death Rowe’s eulogistic description in the property particulars coincided with reality. The house was a double-fronted building in white stucco with smart green shutters at every window. Koi carp swam in an ornamental pond; beyond the triple garage Harry could see a summer-house in the style of a Swiss chalet. The tranquillity of the place made it hard to believe that the city’s clamour was only a short drive away.

He parked and pressed the doorbell. Musical chimes sounded. Somewhere inside a small child began to bleat.

The crying startled him. He had expected Rosemary to be alone. And yet — of course! — the particulars had spoken of a nursery. He had not realised, however, that it was in active use; she had not mentioned a child. He felt a stab of dismay before the absurdity of his instinctive response dawned on him. If it was okay to fancy a married woman, why did it bother him that she was a mother too?

Unsure of himself, he stared at the door. Coming here had seemed a good idea; now he was having second thoughts. He stood there for a full minute before he pulled himself together and rang again. The child renewed its howl of protest but soon he heard approaching footsteps. He sensed someone studying him through the spyhole cut into the oak before at last the door was opened.