Martin Edwards - Suspicious Minds

“I can resist the bedroom eyes. He’s one of those men who thinks he’s committing a social gaffe if he doesn’t put his hand on your bum. Though I’m a little old for his tastes; it’s ages since I was sweet sixteen.”

Harry muttered, “That’s all we need. They’re being shown over here.”

Pino was conducting the newcomers to an adjacent table. Harry saw Grealish recognise first him and then Valerie, and watched the man’s eyebrows rise.

“We meet again. Evening, Mr. Devlin. And Valerie, how are you?”

Grealish clasped her hand and lifted it to his lips whilst the blonde at his side gave Harry a surly nod.

“I’m fine, Bryan. I understand you know Harry?”

“Right. He and a client granted us the honour of their custom one lunchtime last week. Though I had no idea that the two of you were friends. I always understood that barristers and solicitors moved in separate social circles. Like gentry and tradesmen.”

“I’m willing to slum it once in a while. What about you — deserting the Majestic for the Ensenada?”

Grealish flashed his teeth in a wolf’s grin as he and his girlfriend took their seats. Leaning over to continue the conversation he said, “Need to check out the culinary competition on this side of the river every once in a while. And how is Jack Stirrup, Mr. Devlin? Still short of a wife?”

“Not only a wife,” said Harry.

“Don’t follow.”

“His daughter went missing yesterday.”

“You mean Claire?”

The question was so unexpected that it took Harry a couple of seconds to realise that it had been uttered by the blonde girl. He switched his gaze to her. Beneath the heavy layers of mascara, worry had cast a shadow.

He said, “Sorry, I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

“My fault,” said Grealish, oozing lazy charm. “Darling, meet Miss Valerie Kaiwar, barrister of this city. Her father and I do a little business together. And this is Harry Devlin, a local solicitor. Val, Harry, say hello to Stephanie Elwiss. A very good friend of mine.”

“You know Claire?” asked Harry.

The blonde fiddled with her napkin, a nervous gesture. Perhaps she regretted her intervention. “Well, yeah, actually I do.”

“How’s that, may I ask?”

She glanced at Grealish before replying. “Through — through school, actually.”

“You used to go to the same school?”

Grealish threw back his head and roared with laughter. “See, lover, you’re able to fool even a man-about-town like Mr. Devlin. Now do you believe you’re grown up?”

To Harry, he said, “Matter of fact, Steph’s still supposed to be at school. Christ knows why. Life’s got more to offer her than swotting for exams and wasting her time with a bunch of pimply students.”

When Harry thought about it, he could believe that she was no more than, say, sixteen. She looked sophisticated in an evening dress, but when she opened her mouth a child spoke.

“Are you a friend of Claire’s?”

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”

“What, then?”

“Well, we have friends in common. What’s happened to her?”

“Wish I knew.”

Harry explained the previous day’s events. No point hushing them up now that the police were involved. Any chance that he might be able to pick up some clue to Claire’s whereabouts was worth taking.

Stephanie’s eyes widened. “That’s terrible.”

“Is the girl with her step-mum?” suggested Grealish.

Harry stared at him and only narrowly avoided saying, “Now, why didn’t I think of that?” On reflection, the answer was clear and twofold. First, he suspected that Alison was dead. Second, Claire and Alison were supposed to be on frosty terms. And yet the first premise might prove false and the second an exaggeration. Claire was, after all, much nearer to Alison in age than her father. Was it possible that the two of them might have more in common than people had realised?

“Unlikely, I think. But even if you’re right, that still leaves the question — where is Alison?”

Grealish spread his arms. “Don’t ask me.”

Harry became aware of someone hovering above his elbow.

“Ready to order, sir?”

Harry dealt with the waiter and then turned back to the blonde girl. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Valerie shifting impatiently in her seat.

“Sorry, love,” he whispered. “Won’t be a minute.” To Stephanie he said, “The police are sure to be in touch with you soon. Any idea where Claire might be?”

“None. None at all. You don’t think…”

“What?”

“That she might have been murdered by — you know — The Beast?”

“For Chrissake,” said Grealish. “What sort of conversation is this for a Sunday evening? The girl’s done a runner, I expect. Lots of kids do. Who wouldn’t with old Jack as a father? Don’t worry yourself about this Beast, Steph. He hasn’t murdered anyone yet. That’s not how he gets his fun.”

Again he bared his teeth in a crafty grin. And for a moment Harry found himself comparing the face of Bryan Grealish to a vulpine mask, like something worn by The Beast himself.

“Now will you accept he’s a murderer?”

Not even a fuzzy telephone line could disguise Doreen Capstick’s told-you-so triumph.

“Doreen, for God’s sake! The man’s daughter is missing.”

“Exactly. And why? I’ll tell you. Because she’s met the same terrible fate as Alison.”

Harry closed his eyes and reminded himself to be patient. “So you’re not letting us have the apology we asked for?”

“You must be joking! Your letter’s in the wastepaper basket. Sue and be damned, that’s what I say to your precious Mr. Stirrup.”

“In that case, to borrow your slogan, au revoir.”

At the same time that Harry put down the receiver, Jim stuck his head round the door.

“Fancy a chicken salad at the Traders’?”

After the Ensenada, club food had no more appeal than a school dinner, but Harry was glad to escape the phone. The morning’s many interruptions had not helped him forget the unsatisfactory finale to the previous evening. He and Valerie had dined well and not been troubled by further conversation with Grealish. Harry’s hopes had been high when he’d driven them to her flat in Crosby, but she hadn’t invited him in. The turn-down had been gentle: she’d said she had a busy day ahead and wanted an early night, and he believed her. He didn’t want to push his luck, so he had kissed her once then hurried away. But the sense of so-near-yet-so-far was impossible to shake off.

Waiting for Jim in reception, Harry felt a tap on his shoulder. He could somehow tell it was a gesture of reproach.

“On your way out? I’ve come specially to see you.” Jonah Deegan’s tone implied that he was the victim of a conspiracy.

Harry uttered a silent prayer for strength. “Any news?”

“Be reasonable. It’s early days yet.” Jonah wrinkled his brow. “And a difficult case. No two ways about it.”

“Heard about Claire?”

“Read about it in the paper. That’s why I’m here. What happened?”

Jim came into reception. “Hello, Jonah. Found the Maltese Falcon yet? Busy now, Harry?”

“I’ll catch you up at the club. Mine’s a pint of best.”

“Thought the chicken salad sounded too clean living to be true. See you around, Columbo.”

As the door closed behind the big man, Harry turned back to Jonah and gave him a brief account of the events of the past couple of days. “So step-mother and step-daughter are both nowhere to be found,” he concluded. “Coincidence? Hard to believe. But not impossible. Do you have any ideas?”

Deegan scratched his nose. “I saw them both on Friday. Stirrup at his office, the girl at the house. Spoiled little madam, I thought. She didn’t want to talk. But he seemed devoted enough. To her, not his old lady.”