Martin Edwards: I Remember You

Of course his wife Liz had not come back from the dead. This girl’s eyes were brown, not green. She lacked Liz’s high cheekbones and had a snub nose; her mouth was wider and her figure fuller. Yet the way she tossed the magazine aside and concentrated her attention upon him reminded him irresistibly of the woman he had loved with a passion as fierce as it had proved futile; a woman murdered less than two years before.

The resemblance exceeded any superficial similarity of physical appearance. As he overcame his sense of shock on seeing the girl, instinct told him she had the same thirst for life as Liz, and as strong a faith that tomorrow would be better than today. Her body seemed taut with suppressed excitement, as if she were about to embark on a great adventure. In her presence, he felt clumsy and ill-at-ease, and not simply because she had heard him swear. He realised he looked haggard, a rumpled man with hair that defied any comb and a suit as shiny as his shoes. A man whom Liz had left for someone else.

The beginnings of a smile stretched her lips as she contemplated him. It untied his tongue and he blurted out the first thing that came into his head.

‘Sorry … are you being attended to?’

Christ, of all the anodyne questions! Uttered, too, with a frog-in-the-throat nervousness excusable in a schoolboy, but close to absurd in a Solicitor of the Supreme Court of Judicature.

She spoke quickly, words tumbling from her in a torrent, as if she were eager to please.

‘Thanks for asking. I’m here to see your Mr Crusoe about a house sale. Your receptionist,’ she glanced in the direction of gum-chewing Suzanne on the switchboard, ‘told me he’s on the phone, but he’ll be free soon.’

Her vowel sounds betrayed native Scouse origins. This was a local girl made very good.

‘Have we — have we asked if you’d like a coffee while you wait?’ Behind him he heard a stifled cough of indignation from Suzanne. She regarded clients as a necessary evil; offering them hospitality was someone else’s job.

‘It’s quite all right,’ said the girl. ‘I had a cup before I left home.’

‘Fine,’ he said, trying to regain his composure. ‘I’m sure my partner will be here in a minute.’ He wanted to think of a reason to stay, but his powers of invention hadn’t recovered from their courtroom work-out and he found himself walking away into the corridor which led to his room.

Marching in the opposite direction, burly and brisk as a sergeant major, came his partner Jim Crusoe.

‘For God’s sake, old son, you all right? You look terrible. I’ve seen more blood in a banana.’

Harry was glad of the chance to shove the girl out of his mind. ‘I went for a drink with Finbar Rogan in the Dock Brief last night. A hangover I might have expected — not a ringside seat at Dante’s Inferno .’

Rapidly he recounted the events of the previous evening. No hint of surprise disturbed the contours of Jim’s bearded face; Harry had often thought that he would treat the onset of Armageddon as phlegmatically as a seminar on the law of registered title.

‘Arson, eh? Insurance job, do you reckon?’

‘I gather that when Finbar renewed the lease, you recommended him to take out a much bigger policy.’

‘If only I filled in the pools with equal foresight! Good advice, so long as he didn’t see it as a short cut to a small fortune.’

‘He would never be so stupid. He’s the obvious suspect.’

‘If all your clients were Mensa material, you’d be redundant, old son.’

‘True, if unkind. All the same when we were told about the fire in the pub, I didn’t think it was news he’d been expecting to hear. And when we saw the blaze he was genuinely shocked.’

‘Maybe the husband of one of his fancy women decided it was time to retaliate.’ Jim rubbed his beard. His amusement was tinged with disapproval; the most uxorious of men, he could never understand the impulse to promiscuity. ‘Anyway, can’t stop any longer. I have a client waiting.’

‘So I see.’

Something in Harry’s tone made Jim pause. ‘You know her?’

‘Not even her name. But for her, I’d gladly take up domestic conveyancing.’

‘Rogan’s corrupting you, old son. Keep your grubby paws off, she’s a respectable married woman. At least I assume she’s respectable. But she’s certainly married.

A trickle of disappointment dripped down Harry’s spine.

‘Who is she?’

‘Name of Rosemary Graham-Brown. I love clients with double-barrelled names, they never kick up about the bill. And she’s married to money. They’re selling a palace, to judge by the price and the property particulars.’

‘Any purchase?’

‘No, they’re emigrating to Spain. Never mind. If she wants a divorce, I’ll put a word in for you. After all, nothing like moving house for bringing hidden tensions to the surface.’

‘So people say. Personally, I’ve found cheaper ways of putting relationships under strain.’

Harry went to his room, a cramped cubicle overflowing with the papers he never quite got round to. His last remark had been truth spoken in jest. Since Liz’s murder, he had failed to find contentment with any of the other fish in the sea. The affair with his next door neighbour had soon petered out and earlier in the year a fling with a young barrister had ended in bitter recrimination and a mutual feeling of betrayal. Lately he had lacked a woman in his life and at times he found it hard to restrain a reluctant admiration for the carefree manner of Finbar’s philandering. Part of him deplored his client’s behaviour, but another part envied the luck of the Irish.

The phone trilled. ‘Mr Rogan’s here.’

Suzanne would have sounded bored if announcing that Elizabeth Taylor had called for matrimonial advice under the green form scheme, yet, for once, enthusiasm lightened her adenoidal tones. Finbar was incapable of speaking to a woman without trying on the charm. Although some proved immune, he had a flair for making people feel good — and for making them do his bidding. Some day he might even persuade Suzanne to make him a coffee.

‘We weren’t due to meet until two, outside the court door.’

‘He knows that,’ she said, as if explaining the obvious to a child. ‘But he says he’s come to take you out to lunch.’ She left Harry in no doubt that she considered him undeserving of such an honour.

He swept away a sheaf of unanswered correspondence to clear a space on the spare chair and returned to reception. His client was doodling a picture of a butterfly on the back of a Law Society newsletter, seemingly unscathed by the events of the previous night.

‘I can’t tell a fib, mate — you look the worse for wear after all our excitement together. Fancy a bite at the Ensenada, to sharpen you up for the battle this afternoon?’

‘After last night, a lie-down in a darkened room might do me more good. Anyway, come through for a minute.’

Once in Harry’s room, Finbar leaned back in the chair and put his feet on the desk. ‘I must say that girl of yours always takes my eye. She could lose a stone or two, for sure, but never mind. More of her to love, eh? She’s quite an advertisement for Crusoe and Devlin. First impressions in an office count for so much.’

‘We chose her specially to project a rude, lazy and brainless image. The next step is a logo with a V-sign superimposed over the scales of justice. Anyway, we’re stuck with her — no one else would take the wages we pay. So what are you doing here so bright and early, Finbar?’

‘Ah well, I wanted to give you lunch to say thanks for all your support last night.’

‘Don’t mention it. How’s your place looking?’