Martin Edwards: I Remember You

Harry stepped out into the murk, edging towards the MG like a blind man deprived of dog and stick. He was glad that at least the fog in his own head was starting to clear.

Once back at his flat, he tossed a pre-cooked meal into the microwave before scouring through his cupboards and wardrobe.

As if in preparation for a jumble sale, he gathered together oddments of clothing he should have thrown out years ago: a black three-piece suit which had scarcely fitted in his days as a trainee lawyer, when he was ten years younger and did not have a beer gut; a graduation gown borrowed from a fellow Polytechnic student who had not wanted its return; an old bow tie, souvenir of Harry’s one and only attendance at a Law Society Dinner; a plain white shirt which testified to his lack of expertise with an iron.

Having eaten, he changed into the outfit he had assembled. Then, after slicking back his hair with the pungent lotion a distant relative had given him one long-forgotten Christmas, he stood in front of the bedroom mirror and experimented with a lascivious smile.

A charity shop Dracula leered back at him. He lacked the aristocratic mien of the Transylvanian count, but at least the dramas of the past twenty-four hours had drained all colour from his cheeks, obviating the need for make-up. A pity he didn’t have sharper teeth or longer nails.

On his way out of the flat he noticed a screwed-up ball of paper lurking in a corner of the living room. Curious, he smoothed it out. What he saw on the sheet startled him for a moment, before he realised that it reinforced the idea which had already established itself in his mind: the idea which offered an explanation for Finbar’s fate.

He walked the short distance through the gloom to Empire Hall. A couple of petite Scouse girls dressed as hobgoblins were on the main door, checking invitations and collecting coats and scarves.

‘Rosemary and Stuart Graham-Brown invited me.’

‘Of course we did,’ cackled a warty-faced witch standing in the entrance lobby.

Harry took a couple of startled seconds to penetrate the crone’s disguise.

‘Hello, Rosemary.’

‘How marvellous you’ve been able to come,’ said his hostess, reverting to her usual tone and doffing her impossibly tall steeple hat in welcome. ‘A good many of our guests are already inside, but a few fainthearts have cried off because of the weather. Thanks for making the effort.’

‘I only live around the corner.’

Not that it mattered, he thought. He would have battled through fog all night long for the chance of catching up with Finbar’s killer.

‘Let’s go through.’ She took his arm and guided him into the concert room. A grey phantom shimmered towards them, bearing a tray of drinks.

‘Will you have a drop of punch?’ she asked. He recognised the voice of the girl from Merseycredit’s exhibition stand. ‘Or do you only drink blood?’

‘I had a bite before I came out,’ he said.

As Rosemary laughed, he surveyed his surroundings. This evening the lights were low in Empire Hall. Black cats cut out of cardboard prowled along the walls; broad-winged bats and ravens swooped down from the ceiling. The demonic faces of hollowed-out pumpkins with lighted candles inside grinned at him from every nook and cranny. Already the place was filling with representatives of the city’s financial services sector, disguised with unconscious irony as an unholy gathering of demons. As yet there was no sign of the person Harry sought.

Misreading his mind, Rosemary said, ‘Hallowe’en is such a fascinating time, don’t you agree?’ She cackled again. ‘The day when the souls of the dead revisit their homes. A time to placate the supernatural powers.’

‘I’d never have suspected you of an interest in pagan rites.’

‘What else is consumer credit? Don’t tell Stuart I said so, mind. Ah, talk of the devil…’

A hideous monster from the bowels of hell put a clawed hand on Rosemary’s rump, then pulled off his weirdly misshapen head to reveal the grey hair and charm-laden smile of Stuart Graham-Brown.

‘Grand to see you, Harry. Is my wife looking after you?’ He squeezed Rosemary’s shoulder. ‘You seem to have cheered up, darling. This afternoon you were breathing fire and brimstone, weren’t you?’

‘Practising for tonight?’ asked Harry.

‘No, no,’ said Graham-Brown. ‘You remember at lunchtime we boasted about our nanny? When we arrived home this evening, to check all was well with Rainbow before coming over here, we found Debbie with her bags packed and an immediate notice of resignation in her hand. I was livid. Told her she was in breach of contract.’

‘And how did she react to that?’

‘Said she had the best lawyer in Liverpool and would see me in court. Stupid little bitch — as if I would believe for a minute that she could afford Maher and Malcolm’s fees! Anyway, you won’t mind if we circulate?’

Stuart was wearing a dog collar and a lead which Rosemary grasped between forefinger and thumb. With a hiss of pleasure, she led her husband away to meet a group of newly-arrived guests.

As Harry finished his drink someone behind him whispered, ‘You’d better take care when the eats are brought round. They’re covered with garlic.’

He spun round and came face to face with Sophie Wilkins. A white dress clung to her with a sensuality which mocked its virginal high neck and she was carrying a posy of dried flowers. A huge ersatz diamond ring glinted from the third finger of her left hand.

‘The undead can never be too careful,’ he assured her. ‘You can bet I won’t be crossing the Mersey tonight.’

She giggled and he guessed she had been making free with the punch. Drink had washed away the hostility she had shown earlier in the day.

‘Have you guessed who I am?’

‘Bride of Frankenstein?’

She clapped her hands. ‘Well done! You really are a detective!’

‘Dare I ask who Frankenstein is?’

‘One guess.’

‘Nick Folley? Thought as much. Is he here?’

‘Somewhere around. But what brings you to this jamboree?’

‘I came to find out the truth about Finbar’s death.’

‘Don’t you ever give up?’

‘Life’s too short for giving up.’

She sighed. The drinks passed by again and she helped herself from the tray. As she moved closer to him, he could feel her warm breath on his face.

‘I lied to you about last night.’

‘I know you didn’t spend it with Nick.’

‘You see, he had work to finish before he caught the London train. I left him to it, went home alone.’

‘Why did you lie?’

‘You had no right to ask! You’re not the police. I’d been shocked by the news, I couldn’t think straight. I didn’t want Finbar’s lawyer to start accusing me of murder.’

‘So you no longer have an alibi — and Finbar called to see you yesterday afternoon. I hear you didn’t part the best of pals. Perhaps you followed him to the Colonial Dock and seized the chance to run him down.’

His suggestion sobered her. ‘Not even you can believe that.’

‘So what did happen?’

‘He turned up without warning. He’d had a few drinks and Melissa had shown him the door less than half an hour earlier. He had the nerve to say he’d enjoyed my company at the Blue Moon and hoped we could get it together again. So I gave it to him straight, told him I wouldn’t be seen dead in bed with him again. An unfortunate choice of words, in the circumstances…’

‘How did he react?

‘In his usual win-a-few, lose-a-few way. As if he simply had to turn over another page of his little red book.’

‘And how did you spend the evening?’

‘At home. Alone — I took a bottle of gin to bed with me rather than a man. Sorry, no proof — except in the alcohol.’