Martin Edwards: Suspicious Minds

No hint of anything wrong at home, nor of any inner preoccupation. That did not in itself count for much. Harry realised that most successful businessmen had the ability to divorce any domestic traumas from their company lives. But surely even someone more phlegmatic than Jack Stirrup would have been twitchy if he had spent the previous night burying his wife in a wood or under concrete?

Alison had been alive and kicking the previous evening; so much was certain, for her mother had called round unexpectedly. Harry knew Doreen Capstick slightly and had not been surprised to learn that the visit was unannounced. Unless she was a particularly close and loving daughter, then Alison would have found that a little of Doreen went a long way. She might have made an excuse if given prior warning of an impending call. Mrs. Capstick had been at the house between eight and nine. Her departure had been hastened by Stirrup’s late arrival home; he left her in no doubt that after a long day closeted with his business advisers, he was more interested in a hot meal than in small talk with a woman whom he detested.

Stirrup had again been late back the following day. After deciding not to sell to Grealish, he had devoted the afternoon and early evening to desk work before being the last to leave the office at — he said — about half-past seven. Alison was not at home and had not left a note for him. He told the police he was surprised, because this was unusual, but not at first alarmed. Only when she had not returned home by midnight, Stirrup said, did he realise that something untoward might have happened. That was when he dialled 999.

The police were faced with a mystery. Stirrup was not the kind of man to take a close interest in his wife’s wardrobe, but he did not think that Alison had taken any spare clothes with her. No significant withdrawals had been made from their joint bank account. Her Toyota two-seater was locked in the garage. And from that day to this, a six-week span, he had heard nothing from her. Nor had anyone else, so far as he or his motherin-law were aware.

“I could murder a slab of that cake on the trolley.”

Stirrup’s expression didn’t suggest that he regarded his choice of words as unfortunate. Harry was still working his way through the pile of vegetables on his plate. He was saved from the need to reply by a mocking voice from over his shoulder.

“Well, look who we have here. The Majestic is honoured. The North’s premier viticulturist and his tame Perry Mason.”

Bryan Grealish bore as much resemblance to the seaside hotelier of old as a Miami Vice cop to Father Brown. Today he wore a purple vest, white slacks and sandals. Tattooed snakes slithered down the thick muscular arms and his hair was tied back in a pony tail. He was breathing hard, as though fresh from a work-out in the Majestic’s new gym.

Stirrup smiled back, as if paid a compliment. His business relied upon wines imported from the Continent’s less prestigious vineyards; its success had been founded on keen pricing rather than wine snobbery. Over the years he had coped with endless gibes about the quality of his products.

“Bryan, good to see you. Decent meal and not a single bit of glass to be seen.”

The previous week guests attending a wedding reception at the Majestic had discovered small shards of crushed glass in their salad dressing. The bride’s father had rung the Press in a fit of fury. Health scares sell newspapers and the resultant publicity had embarrassed Grealish into lavishing compensation upon the distressed and sacking two of the kitchen staff for good measure. But Egon Ronay was unlikely to recommend the Majestic this year.

Grealish flushed, his jaw lifting in annoyance. But his features quickly regrouped into their usual self-satisfied formation. False modesty was not one of his vices.

“To what do we owe this welcome visit, Jack? Changed your mind about selling out? Or were you simply after a filling lunch? I hear you’re short of home cooking at the moment.”

Stirrup’s tongue flicked at his lips. “Word gets around.”

“Right. Sorry to hear Alison’s moved to new pastures. I always felt she and I ought to get to know each other better.”

“Funny, I’d have thought she was too old for you. It’s years since she wore a gymslip.”

Winking at Harry, Grealish said, “Must keep a broad mind, don’t you think, Mr. Devlin? Good to see Jack’s sense of humour is intact. Rumour has it, he’s keeping you busy these days. Despite those slanderous stories doing the rounds.”

“You’d have made a good lawyer yourself,” said Harry easily. “Shame to waste all that bullshit.”

“What stories?” demanded Stirrup.

“I dunno.” Grealish’s innocent expression was as phoney as a pimp’s tax return. “People say you’ve been going in for midnight gardening, though Christ knows what you’d be digging up so late at night. Or burying.”

“Are you calling me a murderer?”

With an economy of effort surprising in a man so big, Stirrup reached for the sweet trolley, picked off a slice of Black Forest Gateau and shoved it, circus-clown fashion, into Grealish’s face with a force which sent the hotelier staggering backwards onto the floor. A woman at an adjoining table screamed. Two waiters came running up to help their boss back to his feet. A gallows grin had spread across Stirrup’s face. He took a fifty-pound note from his wallet and tossed it at Grealish.

“That should cover any damage to your vanity as well as the nosh. And next time, take more care who you fart around with.”

A fair-haired girl in a halter-neck bikini came on to the verandah. Her tanned body was a woman’s but her spoiled pout belonged in a kindergarten. Catching sight of Grealish wiping the creamy mess off his face, she put her hands on her hips, not saying a word. In twenty years, Harry wondered, would she be a nagging wife with a husband harbouring secret thoughts of murder?

Grealish mustered a humourless grin. “Pleasure calls, gentlemen. No hard feelings, Jack, but you need to watch that temper of yours. It’ll put you inside one of these fine days.”

He slipped his arm around the girl’s bare brown shoulders as they walked away. It was less a gesture of affection than of ownership.

In the M.G. five minutes later Stirrup said, “Makes your flesh creep, doesn’t he? Feller of his age shouldn’t be messing around with kids like that. She can’t be any older than Claire.”

Harry wasn’t sure his client was well equipped to make moral judgments. Better change the subject.

“So do you think he’s the one stirring it with the police?”

Stirrup grinned with a child’s delight. “Not really, he was just trying to take the piss out of me. That’ll learn him. See his face covered in cake?”

Trying to conceal his impatience Harry said, “Who else might have a grudge against you?”

Stirrup laughed: a raucous noise, like bricks falling off a wagon. “You kidding? The list’s a mile long. My bloody motherin-law’s always hated me. And how about Trevor Morgan?”

“Heard anything of him lately?”

“Far as I know, he’s still on the dole. Like most of the people I’ve fired over the years.”

“I’ll ask around if you want, see if I can find out who’s been making waves.”

“Thanks,” Stirrup grunted. “And since you’re too delicate to enquire, I’ll tell you. No, I didn’t murder Alison.”

Harry didn’t find it hard to restrain his delight at the unsolicited denial; he had the lawyer’s dread of a client who answers questions which have not been asked.

He switched on the radio for the local news. A council row about over-spending. A strike on the docks. Harry yawned: political peace and industrial harmony would have been more of a scoop. Then came an item which seized Stirrup’s attention, had him straining his seat belt, trying to follow the story through fuzzy reception.