Martin Edwards - I Remember You

‘Why concern yourself?’ she asked, her tone harsh. ‘He’s dead now. He won’t be paying any more of your bills.’

‘He hardly kept me in luxury whilst he was alive. I seem to have spent most of the past few days defending him from people who had good cause to despise him.’

‘The truth is, you can’t resist poking your nose into other people’s business, can you? This detection thing — it’s a kind of game where you’re concerned.’

Harry felt himself flushing. He was honest enough to accept there was a grain of truth in the slur.

‘Finbar didn’t deserve to die.’

‘That’s a matter of opinion. To answer your question, when he left here he was still in one piece. You’ll have to take my word for it. Knowing him as I do — as I do now , I should say — I expect he was thinking: easy come, easy go.’

Harry winced. Finbar himself had used exactly that phrase.

‘I didn’t ask him for a lift into town, if that’s what you’re hinting. Or arrange to meet him later.’

‘I just wondered — if there was anything else you wanted to say to me, something you might have forgotten to mention to Sladdin in the aftermath of the shock. Or something — it might be entirely innocent — you felt you’d rather not disclose.’

‘You never give up, do you? We’re not in court, Harry, and I’m not on the witness stand.’

‘Look, Melissa I realise things have been tough lately and your emotions…’

‘ Emotions ! Where Finbar is concerned, I only have one emotion. I’m glad. Not glad he’d dead, so much, simply glad he’s out of my life for ever, and won’t be coming back to treat me like shit ever again.’ For a moment her expression froze in defiance, before dissolving into tears.

Harry hesitated, then put an arm around her shoulder. He expected resistance, but all she did was sob. ‘Cry as much as you like,’ he said. ‘It will do you good.’

She brushed at her damp face with a hand. ‘Oh God, Harry, what a fucking mess. Finbar’s dead and I’m alone and out of work and the world seems to have stopped moving.’

Neither of them said anything for a minute or so. Finally he withdrew his arm.

‘Thanks for coming over,’ she said. ‘I panicked when the police called, didn’t know what else to do but call you.’

‘No problem.’

‘I appreciate it. After all, you were Finbar’s friend, not mine.’ She compressed her lips and gave him a look full of challenge. ‘So — do you think I murdered him?’

He considered Melissa, white-faced and desperate. It was tempting to tell a soothing lie. But in the end he opted for the truth.

‘I really don’t know,’ he said.

Chewing a slice of cold toast the next morning, Harry asked himself if he really believed Melissa to be capable of murdering Finbar.

A premeditated assassination would surely be beyond her. He could imagine her committing a crime of passion — but not a pre-planned, cold-blooded killing. Her attack on Finbar with the scissors showed she had a dangerous streak; yet she had admitted to it, despite knowing the only other witness was dead. A good defence lawyer could make capital out of that, even though her frankness might be motivated by something other than an innocent devotion to the truth.

What had been the purpose of Finbar’s nocturnal visit to deserted Colonial Dock, whence no ships had sailed in years? He must have known his killer. Harry could not believe that this was a case of accidental death, nor that Finbar would have made his hire car available for a perfect stranger to climb in, seize the wheel and mow him down.

He could still hardly credit that Finbar was dead. All night he’d found it impossible to sleep but now he was up he felt physically drained. Time after time he stole a glance at the telephone, half expecting it to ring. How he would love to pick up the receiver and hear the Irishman announce, like a modern Mark Twain, that reports of his demise were an exaggeration. But for once the phone remained silent.

Strange to think that never again would he be deafened by a burst of Finbar’s exuberant laughter. No more invitations to sink a pint or three at the Dock Brief; no more tall stories about life in Dublin; no more boozy philosophising about why people should want their bodies disfigured by elaborate tattoos. Over the past few days Harry had discovered the selfishness underneath Finbar’s charm. But he couldn’t help mourning the man, all the same.

It was almost half past eight: time for a news bulletin. Harry reached across the breakfast bar and switched on his transistor radio, curious to learn how Radio Liverpool would announce Finbar’s death.

The Who were singing about their generation — they hoped they would die before they got old. It might have been Finbar’s theme song. Harry remembered his client’s rueful confession to the police on the night of the fire: that he had made too many enemies to have any prospect of ever drawing his pension. With hindsight Finbar’s throwaway remark seemed tragically prophetic.

A jingle played and Baz Gilbert said, ‘And in the newsroom, it’s Clive Sheron.’

A young man’s solemn voice said, ‘Merseyside police are treating the death of a well-known local tattoo artist as suspicious. Mr Finbar Rogan, whose body was found at Colonial Dock yesterday evening, had apparently been run over by a motor vehicle, but the driver failed to report the incident. A police spokesman told us that enquiries are continuing.’ Further items followed — about lay-offs at a Halewood factory and Everton’s injury worries in the lead-up to Saturday’s derby game — as Harry pondered Sladdin’s role in the enquiry.

If Special Branch continued to be involved, a terrorist connection with the crime could not have been ruled out. Did that point the finger back at Dermot McCray? Might McCray have been an associate of Pearse Cato back in Ireland in days gone by? Harry thought it possible, despite Finbar’s denial. Yet how could McCray have killed Finbar and drunk with Graham-Brown and his blonde bit-on-the-side at one and the same time?

Of course, McCray might have slipped out of the wine lodge whilst Harry was supping in the Plimsoll Line. However, the idea that he might have done so, quickly taken his revenge on Finbar and then raced back simply to conclude his argument with Graham-Brown stretched credulity to breaking point. Harry suspected that McCray had given Finbar a fright with the fire and the bomb; but someone else had managed to finish him off before the builder had the chance.

All this speculation was, Harry knew, idle; the police were in charge of the investigation and the sensible course — and the soft option — was to leave them to it. But sensible courses and soft options held no appeal for him. Finbar, for all his faults, was entitled to justice. Harry owed it to him to find out what had happened. All his training in the legal process, his learning to see it as trial by combat, adversarial rather than inquisitorial, had never succeeded in smothering his urge to discover the truth. He could feel now the physical signs of the hunger which had in the past cost him dear. The churning in his stomach was familiar, so too the dryness in his throat: no point in pretending otherwise. He couldn’t be satisfied, wouldn’t find peace, while the puzzle remained unsolved.

‘Time for a song from the latest Luther Vandross album,’ said Baz in the background. He sounded relaxed, unaffected by doom and gloom from the newsroom. It was as if he had never met the man whose death had just been reported. ‘Luther’s a special favourite of my lovely producer, Sophie Wilkins, so you can expect to hear plenty more from him for the rest of this week.’