Martin Edwards - Suspicious Minds

“I know you’re worried. Don’t blame you for that. Any mother would be. Surely you and Jack could get together. Talk things through. You might be able to find some common ground. He’s just as distraught as you are, there’s…”

“Talk things through?”

Doreen’s scorn was histrionic. Out of the corner of his eye Harry could see Francesca and her cronies watching them with undisguised interest, wondering what was being said, barely giving a second glance to the handful of men in business suits who had drifted into the room during the last few minutes and were now standing around with puzzled faces, waiting for attention.

“How do you talk things through with the man who has murdered your only child?” Doreen hissed. “No, it’s impossible. Alison is dead, I’ve simply got to reconcile myself to that, terrible as it is. She wouldn’t have left so suddenly, saying not a word to anyone, taking nothing with her. He’s killed her and hidden the body, there’s no other explanation. And I’m not going to rest until he’s made to pay for his crime.”

Tears began to fill her eyes. Gulping for breath, she said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, other guests are arriving. My solicitors are Windaybanks. Correspond with them if you feel so inclined.”

She stalked off, head held proudly in the air. Harry groaned inwardly. Her emotion might be actressy but her logic was hard to fault. Why should Alison have walked out on her marriage without even seeking to cash in on a divorce? It didn’t make sense. Unlike the suggestion that she was dead. And if she was dead, was it suicide, accident or murder?

“Hello again.” It was Francesca, speaking huskily in his ear. He turned and noticed that she was a little unsteady on her feet. Perhaps that tray of wine had proved too tempting.

“Guess what?” she asked. “My boyfriend isn’t picking me up this evening after all.”

She gave Harry what was, he guessed, intended to be a meaningful look, but the effect was spoiled by the tipsy vagueness in her eyes and the way she slurred her words.

“Men are bastards,” he said. “Ask your boss if you don’t believe me. Anyway, I must be off now. Otherwise I’d offer you a lift home myself. Have a good evening, anyway. See you tomorrow.”

Before she could reply, he had left the room. Her clumsy overture had reminded him that he had forgotten to make arrangements to see Valerie. He hurried to the payphone in the lobby and dialled her number.

Nothing but the ringing tone. He hung on for five full minutes until the impatient coughing of an elderly man whose frown would have intimidated Churchill forced him to admit defeat. Where was Valerie? He told himself not to speculate. All he could hope was that, like himself, she would be spending the night alone.

“Julian Hamer?” At the other end of the telephone line, Stirrup spoke the barrister’s name slowly. Measuring it, testing it for weight. “Good, is he?”

“Recommended,” said Harry tightly. As the sun streamed in through the small window of his office, his mind was clouded by a sudden vision of a well-manicured white hand caressing a honey-coloured cheek. He’d not been able to smother his fear that Hamer had spent last night with Valerie.

“Fine. I’m bringing Claire along this afternoon. She can tell the barrister how the letter upset her.”

“No need for that, Jack.”

“Who’s paying for this meeting, this — what d’you call it? — conference? She’s coming and that’s final. The experience will do her good. Give her an idea of life in the legal profession. She’d make a first-rate lawyer, Harry boy. God knows, she can be argumentative enough.”

“Sure you want to go through with this? Suing Doreen isn’t going to get Alison back.”

“What else can I do? ‘Specially now you’ve told me she’s the one telling the police I’ve done away with her precious only daughter. Strikes me, everyone’s so busy calling me a murderer, nobody’s bothering to find where Alison’s run off to.”

You didn’t seem so bothered yourself, at first, Harry thought. Aloud, he said, “Easier said than done.”

“I’ve been thinking. What if I hired someone to try and track her down?”

“You mean a private detective?”

“Right. The police are no use. They wouldn’t be bloody bothered if Doreen hadn’t made herself such a pain in the arse. Now they’re more interested in harassing me than finding Ali.”

“The Salvation Army sometimes…”

“No, I want my own man. Someone who only answers to me. Any ideas?”

“There’s a feller I use sometimes. Ex-police. He’s the one who found out Doreen was stirring it with the police. Miserable as sin, mind you.”

“I want a private eye, not a bloody court jester. Get him to call me.”

After putting the phone down, Harry considered Jack’s initiative. Even now he seemed more concerned to get Bolus and Doreen off his back than to re-build his marriage. Hiring someone to trace Alison looked like the act of an innocent man. Or might it be a double bluff, a calculated gamble taken on the assumption that the detective would not chance upon the truth?

He had a case before the Dale Street bench that morning. A plea of guilty to handling a dodgy video recorder. Harry was in the corridor outside the courtrooms, half-listening to his client’s implausible story about buying the VCR in a pub from a man whom he had never met before or since, when he spotted in the crowd a familiar head of tousled black hair, bobbing towards the exit.

“Back in a minute.”

Harry was lost in the crush of people before his receiver of stolen goods could reply. Battling his way through, he managed to stretch out an arm and tap his quarry on the shoulder.

Trevor Morgan turned and stared. His eyes seemed to take a minute to focus. Even in his prime, he’d been no Adonis. He had a rugby player’s solid build and his years in the Aberavon front row had left him with a nose so misshapen it was a wonder he could breathe. He used to claim he’d broken it as often as the Seventh Commandment. But by any standards, this morning he was looking rough. On his left cheek a scratch was barely covered by a cheap sticking plaster that had traces of dirt around its edges. The whiff of stale beer on his breath was enough to make anyone take the pledge.

“Harry. All right?” The words were slurred. No stranger himself to hangovers, Harry realised he was in the presence of a classic of its kind.

“Okay. I won’t ask if you are.”

“Thanks, pal.” Morgan pushed a hand through his hair, screwing up his eyes as if in pain. “Jesus, I need sleep. Not this bloody farce.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Bit of trouble with the law. Disorderly conduct on Lime Street station last night, so they tell me. Argument with a porter. Can’t remember the details, think I got into this drinking contest in The Legs of Man and simply wanted to sleep it off on one of his bloody platforms. Not much to ask, wouldn’t you think?”

“Are you working yet?”

“That a joke? Who wants to employ a guy of forty-five who’s been turfed on to the street without even a reference? I wouldn’t be here now if not for Jack Stirrup.”

“You didn’t give him any choice.”

Trevor Morgan’s career as Operations Director for Stirrup Wines had been punctuated by episodes of sexual misconduct with members of staff. In better times his macho manner and Welshman’s way with words had been a passport to endless affairs with women who worked in the branches. Stories were legion of off-licences throughout the North West displaying the CLOSED EARLY DUE TO STAFF SHORTAGES sign when Trevor and the manageress could be found in bed together in her flat upstairs. If only he’d been content with that, Stirrup would have kept turning a blind eye.