Martin Edwards - I Remember You

The cab joined a queue of traffic on the climb up Roe Street. At the sight of the cars tailing back from the lights opposite the station, Harry paid and scrambled out into the fume-laden air. He crossed the road, then took the steps to the station entrance hall two at a time. The concourse was teeming with people and he pushed through the crowd to join those staring up at the information board. The next train from Euston was almost due. He wandered over to the paperback stall, where he was amused to notice a doyen of the Liverpool accountancy profession furtively purchasing a girlie magazine, sliding it inside his Financial Times with an ease Harry felt sure was born of long practice. Knowing that old rogue, he probably had a scheme for claiming tax relief on his purchase.

As the arrival of the London train was announced, Harry moved towards the gate which led to the platform. He scanned the faces of the returning travellers: students humping rucksacks, back from the bright lights; London businessmen on a flying visit to North West subsidiaries to impose another batch of redundancies; elderly people with bemused expressions, fussing about their tickets and their destinations; a party of burger-munching kids with harassed teachers. And, finally, emerging from the first class compartment with a smart briefcase under his arm, came Nick Folley.

Folley tossed his ticket towards the collector and sauntered through the barrier. Harry called to him. ‘Can I have a word?’

Folley swung round. The expression on his face was one of pleased surprise; perhaps he imagined he had been accosted by a journalist anxious to follow the every move of a prominent celebrity. When he recognised Harry, the smile faded.

‘You again.’

‘We must stop meeting like this.’

‘You were on the London train?’

‘No, but Radio Liverpool told me you were and I wanted a word.’

Folley frowned. ‘You’ve been looking for me?’

‘I wanted to talk to you about Finbar Rogan.’

Folley sucked in his cheeks. ‘I can’t imagine anyone I have less wish to discuss.’

‘Did you know he’s dead?’

Folley put the briefcase down on the ground, with as much care as if it were full of fragile antiques. Was his surprise genuine? Harry could not tell. After all, the man had long experience of performing before the cameras.

‘He was killed by a car last night. It was a hit-and-run job.’

‘I won’t pretend I’m heartbroken,’ Folley said slowly. ‘Kids driving a stolen vehicle, was it? Didn’t he get out of their way in time?’

‘I don’t think so. I believe he was murdered.’

‘Really? Well, you may be right. After all, there had been other attempts, hadn’t there? All he was good for was making enemies.’

‘The person who set fire to his shop and planted the bomb was already in police custody at the time Finbar died. His wife has confessed to both the earlier crimes.’

‘ What ?’ Folley could not hide his amazement.

‘So anyone who hoped the blame would fall on Sinead Rogan is due for a disappointment.’

‘And — what do the police think?’

‘No idea. I’m making my own enquiries.’

‘Aren’t you taking a lot on yourself?’

‘I was Finbar’s lawyer. And, in a way, his friend.’

Folley snorted his contempt. ‘You can’t tell me Rogan had any friends — just acquaintances and saloon-bar pick-ups.’

‘Jealous?’

For half a second, Harry thought he had struck a nerve; Folley took a step forward and lifted a hand. But then he checked himself and forced his mouth into a humourless parody of the old smile from his television days.

‘If you’re thinking of Melissa, forget it. I won’t deny I was glad to be seen with her at one time of day. But she — well, let’s just say in the end she needed me more than I needed her. I dropped her before she started seeing Rogan.’

‘And Sophie?’

Two spots of colour came into Folley’s cheeks. ‘She made a stupid mistake. We all do, from time to time.’

‘You weren’t so phlegmatic at Empire Hall the other night. You tried to strangle Finbar.’

‘For God’s sake, don’t be so fucking melodramatic. That was my stupid mistake, if you insist: something and nothing, over and done with in the space of seconds. I’m working under pressure all the time. Business conditions — they’re not easy at present. I’ve had one or two setbacks lately. That’s why I had to dash down to London, if you must know. It’s hardly surprising if once in a while I lose my cool.’

‘And did you — lose your cool again last night?’

‘What?’ Folley scowled, then barked a laugh. ‘You’re not suggesting I was the one who ran him down, are you?’

‘Are you denying it? The police are bound to ask the question.’

‘Of course I’m denying it, you fool! The whole idea’s crazy.’

‘So where were you yesterday afternoon and evening, before you set off for London?’

Folley gritted his teeth, as if resolving that the conversation had gone far enough. He picked up his briefcase.

‘Mind your own business, Mr Devlin. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and mind mine.’

Harry watched Nick Folley stride across the concourse towards a waiting car emblazoned with the name and logo of Radio Liverpool and wondered whether he had been talking to Finbar’s murderer.

Why hadn’t Folley volunteered Sophie as his alibi? Of course, the obvious and innocent explanation could be the truth: he had no right to cross-examine anyone and Folley might simply have become sick of the questions and decided to co-operate no further. On the other hand — ah, that favourite lawyers’ phrase! — perhaps Folley did have something to hide. A glance at the train departure times told him that Folley could have taken an express to London two or three hours after the time when Finbar had met his death. What had Folley been doing before that? Had he been with Sophie — or not?

Harry debated with himself as the travellers jostled by. Melissa had been sacked; Sophie would no doubt refuse to speak to him if he returned to North John Street again. He needed another source of information and his best hope was Baz Gilbert. He decided to make for Bellingham’s. Someone else would be there with whom his first meeting was long overdue: Stuart Graham-Brown.

The shock of Finbar’s death had pushed Rosemary to the back of his mind — but not out of it. Yet nothing he had learned today made it easier to understand what the Graham-Browns were up to.

The Hallowe’en party sounded like a large scale public relations exercise rather than a routine knees-up; hiring the concert room at Empire Hall cost serious money. Why would the Graham-Browns go to so much trouble when they were on the point — they hoped — of emigrating? An elaborate bluff? One thing was certain: so far as the house sale was concerned, Stuart had hidden behind his wife for long enough.

Harry didn’t have a chauffeur-driven car on hand and the line of people searching for taxis was as long as a Kirkby dole queue, so he took the escalator for the Underground. The Liverpool Loop had long ago been christened the Bermuda Triangle by commuters driven to despair by the cancellation of scheduled services, but for once the metallic voice announcing delays due to a whole host of reasons, ranging from staff shortages to water on the line, was silent. As he arrived on the platform, a train pulled in, and five minutes later he was walking through the misty streets which led from James Street Station to Bellingham’s.

The wine bar was owned by a local actor who revelled in Liverpudlian hostility towards central government and he’d named the place after a man who had lived in the city almost two hundred years earlier; the story was told on a plaque inside the door to the bar. John Bellingham felt he’d suffered an injustice at the hands of the Russians; when the authorities failed to put matters right, he’d travelled to London and shot the Prime Minister. In those days there wasn’t much scope for defence lawyers and within a week Bellingham had been tried, convicted, sentenced and executed. Would Pearse Cato one day similarly be celebrated? Harry wondered. How long would it take for the memory of senseless brutality to fade, for today’s assassins to be regarded with tolerant good humour?