Martin Edwards - I Remember You

‘So you think he’s the one who has it in for me?’

‘He has the opportunity as well as the motive. Who else do you know who is likely to be hand in glove with Irish terrorists, people with access to bomb-making equipment?’

‘Maybe you’re right. I must admit I’ve been mulling over the notion. Yet there’s one thing I can’t understand. Dermot never had anything to do with terrorism while I knew him. And this is a private grudge, nothing more.’

Harry leaned forward. ‘Leave Sladdin to ferret out the evidence,’ he urged. ‘Will you speak to him tomorrow?’

‘Maybe I will.’ Finbar exhaled. ‘Now, is there any chance of another glass of your excellent whisky?’

Harry passed the bottle and slumped back into his chair. He felt exhausted. It had been a long day and his headache had worsened. The story of Eileen’s death had dismayed him; although he realised the dangers of moral judgments, he felt he could never regard Finbar in the same way again. There would always be a barrier between them, built of his repugnance for the way his client used the women in his life. But at least it seemed the riddle of the attacks on Finbar had been solved. Harry began to yearn for nothing other than a darkened room and deep sleep.

Finbar kept him up late all the same, supping his booze and telling tall stories of tattoos he had drawn and the people who had worn them. As he dozed, Harry was vaguely aware of his guest illustrating an anecdote with pictures swiftly drawn on paper torn from a Counsel’s notebook he found in the hall, admiring his own handiwork then crumpling the sheets up and tossing them aside. Eventually Harry dropped off and began to dream. Strange creatures, come to life from Finbar’s tattoos, were menacing him: a furious phoenix and a blood-spitting dragon, hate filled tigers and a black butterfly which flapped vast intimidating wings.

When he awoke he became fuzzily aware that it was morning and he was lying on the couch in the living room. His neck was sore and at first he wondered if perhaps he, rather than his client, had been the victim of attempted strangulation. Finally he realised it was simply the result of lying in an uncomfortable position. He stretched complaining limbs and tried to ignore a roaring in his head reminiscent of the noise made by McCray’s navvies.

Finbar, wearing only his trousers, wandered into the living room. From his bare chest, Lady Godiva squinted at Harry with disdain. Her creator seemed well rested and in jovial mood.

‘Don’t you dare utter one cheerful word,’ mumbled Harry, ‘or I’ll finish the job Folley started.’

‘Not in the best of humours, are we? Shame, but the drink does have an effect. And as for Nick — well, we all get overexcited from time to time.’

‘So you’re in a forgiving mood?’

‘I’ve never been a man to hold grudges. It’s not as if it was a serious attempt to kill me, not slap-bang in the middle of a public exhibition.’ Finbar scratched himself under the arms. ‘And after the events of the last day or two, Nick Folley is the least of my worries. Now, can I get you an aspirin?’

‘Never mind the aspirin — why didn’t you put me to bed?’

‘Ah, you looked so peaceful it seemed wrong to disturb you! And since you’d taken my billet on the couch I thought the sensible thing was for me to borrow your bed for the night. No problem about the old sheets, I’m not that pernickety.’ He retuned Harry’s transistor to Radio Liverpool and switched on Pop In , where Baz was dedicating ‘This Guy’s In Love With You’ to Penny Newland. Finbar sang along with tuneless gusto.

Harry crawled off the couch and made himself a coffee. He responded to Finbar’s attempts at conversation with monosyllables which became emphatic only when Finbar said wistfully that he couldn’t expect to impose on Harry’s hospitality for another night. ‘No,’ Harry agreed.

‘Ah well,’ said Finbar with a sigh, ‘I suppose I’d better try and make my peace with Melissa.’

‘You’ll be lucky.’

‘That little — contretemps, shall we say? — last evening was unfortunate, I’ll agree. She was upset, it’s only natural. But she’ll get over it. Women do.’

‘And if not?’

‘Plenty more fish in the sea, Harry.’

There was no arguing with him. Harry finished his coffee. ‘I’ll be off now,’ he said. ‘I have a date in the police cells this morning. Stay here a while if you want. Slam the door behind you when you go. And for God’s sake talk to Sladdin.’

‘Thanks again, mate. I appreciate what you’ve done.’

‘Keep in touch,’ said Harry, unsure whether he meant it.

Harry spent the morning at court representing a couple of scoundrels who regarded arrest as a way of life. When he returned to Fenwick Court, the construction work had stopped, but a couple of McCray’s men were there, talking in low, angry voices. As Harry walked across the courtyard, the atmosphere seemed to him heavy with unspoken menace. He wondered whether he ought to ring the police himself if Finbar reneged on his promise to tell all to Sladdin.

Sylvia Reid greeted him in reception. He could tell from the curve of her smile that she’d heard good news.

‘Heather called. Jim is due to be discharged later today.’

‘Seriously? That’s wonderful. Though with the National Health Service in its present state, all it means is he’s not in immediate need of intensive care.’

Nevertheless, the message delighted him. As he worked through the urgent post in his own room, he reflected that, but for his partner’s accident, he would never have laid a finger on the Graham-Brown file, and would thus have been spared the dilemmas that now faced him. How was he to tell Rosemary that the Ambroses were unable to complete? And what was he to do about his suspicion that her husband was engaged in some kind of fraud?

He decided against paying another visit to Crow’s Nest House. It might be better, he told himself, to draw her out. He dictated a terse letter to her and her husband, passing on Geoffrey Willatt’s message and asking them to contact him to discuss its implications. Having signed it and asked his secretary to send it first class, he tried to concentrate on the misadventures of the more commonplace crooks he acted for in the criminal courts. But it was no good. Even when the envelope had been entrusted to the Royal Mail, he kept harking back to Rosemary. No point in fooling himself; he hadn’t wanted to take the chance of seeing her again. There was too great a risk that, in her presence, he would let his heart rule his head.

Yet his instinct was, as ever, for action. Sitting on the sidelines could never satisfy him for long. By the end of the afternoon he had decided on a different kind of direct approach; it was time to introduce himself to Stuart Graham-Brown. He would tell his client face to face that the house sale had fallen through, see for himself the reaction his news evoked. Caught off guard, Graham-Brown might be tempted to give his game away.

A glance at the phone book confirmed that Merseycredit’s office was to be found in Tobacco Court and he strolled there through the evening twilight by way of Dale Street, uncertain what his next move should be on arrival. His destination was one of the warren of passageways which had once been Liverpool’s mercantile heartland; a place for trading cotton, crops and animal skins. These days most of the buildings were vacant and in a state of disrepair; the courtyard was home only to Merseycredit, a sex shop, a wine lodge and a greasy spoon cafe. Perhaps, Harry reflected, Tobacco Court should carry a government health warning.

The name of Merseycredit was picked out in gold leaf on a first floor window above the sex shop. An entrance door led to a flight of stairs. Harry hesitated at the bottom, but when he heard people talking upstairs, he dodged out again and studied the card in the sex shop window which warned him not to be shocked if he found ‘adult goods’ on sale inside.