Martin Edwards - Suspicious Minds

Stephanie shrugged. “Not much I can say.”

“Don’t be so sure. What did she want to see you about?”

“All she said was, her conscience had been nagging her to go round again and see how well Gina was recovering. She’d gone with Pam McDougall soon after it happened. That was the only time.”

“Did this talk about conscience surprise you?”

“Well…” Stephanie pondered. “Suppose it did.”

“Why?”

“I wouldn’t have expected it from Claire. Some people, yes, but not her. Never speak ill of the dead and all that, but she wasn’t exactly Florence Nightingale, you know? The way she went on after she got that yellow belt in karate! Mind you, she probably needed self-defence with that creepy boyfriend of hers… But I wouldn’t have thought she’d want to waste any more time with Gina. They were never pally.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Claire kept going on about how nightmarish it was. You know, to be raped by a man who wore a mask. So that you could pass him in the street a week later when he was ordinarily dressed and you wouldn’t even give him a second glance. Nothing to recognise, you see.”

“Anything else?”

“She said she was going to visit Gina again the next day. Last Friday.”

Harry felt a finger stroking the back of his neck. He knew that touch.

“Escaped from your prehistoric friend?” he asked without turning round.

“Jealous?” Valerie put her arm round his neck and pulled his face towards hers. Her smile was as provocative as the way her hips swung beneath the mini dress.

“I’d better be going,” said Stephanie. Without another word she melted into the crowd.

“Fancy her?” asked Valerie.

“Who’s jealous now?”

“We don’t own each other. Not even after last night. I don’t mind if you want to chat up pretty girls.”

“As Dusty used to sing: ‘I Only Want to Be With You.’”

She leaned against him, using his strength for support. “Bet you say that to all the lady barristers.”

Something impelled him to say, “I mean it, Val. You’re the only one.”

The small dark-skinned girl smiled. There was a woozy flirtatiousness about everything she said and did tonight. Harry guessed that at lunch and this evening she had drunk far more than she was accustomed to.

“I’m flattered. Really I am. Only…” Her face clouded for a moment.

“Yes?”

“Don’t get possessive, will you?”

“Why not?” he asked softly.

“‘Cause I’m not ready for it, that’s why not. Life’s short. Why make chains for yourself before it’s time?”

“Meaning?”

“Nothing in particular.” She stood upright with an effort at dignity which merely emphasised her lack of sobriety.

“Come on, what are you saying?” Harry knew he was making a mistake, but he too had been drinking and he felt the need to press the point, to ignore the voice in his mind which urged discretion.

“Oh well, if you must know. I don’t want to get tied down too soon. Do you understand?”

The message behind the question made Harry bite his lip in dismay. It was as if a ghost had started tapping on his shoulder. When Valerie was so unlike Liz, in looks and background and personality, when everything about their relationship was so different, why did she suddenly remind him of his former wife? Uninvited, the answer crept into his head. Because you need her more than she needs you, that’s why.

“I think so.”

“Oh Christ. Don’t sound so defensive. Perhaps it’s time for me to go.”

“Okay. I’m ready.”

“No need for you to come too, Harry. We don’t have to spend every night together.”

“I’d like to spend tonight with you.”

Valerie wrinkled her brow. “Look, let’s slow down a little, shall we? I already said, I don’t want to drift into something heavy just yet. We both have our own lives to lead.”

A sickening sense of frustration engulfed him. For a moment he was seized by the urge to strike out blindly, heedless of the consequences.

“And you have your own private interests to pursue, I suppose?” He didn’t try to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

“Come on, Val. Julian Hamer’s hovering in the background still, isn’t he?”

She stared at him, her face reddening with either embarrassment or anger. Or both. “For God’s sake! What’s Julian got to do with it?”

He should have stopped there, while an escape route remained open, but drink and disappointment had hold of him and he plunged on recklessly.

“Quite a lot, hasn’t he? The two of you seem very close.”

“Harry, I never thought you’d be so puerile. We’re adults, I’m entitled to do as I want. Julian’s a very dear friend, let me tell you. He helped me when I was starting out in the law, persuaded David Base to pass me the briefs he had to turn down because of pressure of work. I owe him a lot. He’s been going through a rough time lately and I’ve told him, anything I can do to help, I will. Your behaving like a jealous child won’t make me change my mind.”

The real Elvis was crooning from the speakers now. He sang that he was caught in a trap, protested that they couldn’t go on together with suspicious minds.

Harry said, “Have it your own way. Do you want a lift home or shall I call a taxi?”

She could match him for stubbornness. “No need. I can call a cab myself. Good night.”

As she stalked off through the crowd, he realised too late how badly he had behaved and called after her despairingly, “Valerie, I’ll give you a ring. Okay?”

But she didn’t give any sign that she had heard and he stood with bowed head long after she had disappeared from sight.

The sun was high over the River Dee as Harry drove slowly along the promenade at West Kirby, checking the numbers of the houses to his left. Hearty businessmen who had slipped away from work early to take advantage of the glorious afternoon were filling the air with plummy-voiced camaraderie as they tinkered with boats on the marina. The atmosphere was so genteel that it was hard to believe that on the peninsula’s other coast, no more than seven miles away, were the scruffy novelty shops and litter-strewn burger bars of New Brighton.

Harry identified a smartly painted three-storey maisonette as the place he was seeking. As he rang the doorbell, he became aware of an unexpected nervousness, a weak feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Sally Jean-Jacques answered at once. She was as attractive as he had remembered. He knew her to be forty but her shoulder-length ash-blonde hair was as fine as that of any teenager and her sky blue jump suit displayed a figure still slender and tempting.

“Harry, how good to see you again.”

When they had spoken earlier on the phone, he had recalled how her gentle way of speaking had always appealed to him. There was nothing strident about her. She was one of those people who, even after a gap in time, can pick up a friendship or acquaintance as if it had continued without interruption for half a lifetime.

“Thanks for being willing to talk, Sally.”

She didn’t offer to shake hands; she wasn’t someone whom formality appealed. Instead she smiled and said, “Come in. You’ll have to take us as you find us, I’m afraid. I haven’t bothered to dust or anything since you called.”

“Are you well?” He didn’t ask out of mere politeness. He hoped she was fine; she deserved to be.

“Speaking for myself, seldom been better,” she said, leading him into a large living room with a vast Indian rug draped over the floor and Oriental hangings suspended from the picture frame. “Take a seat. Would you like some tea?”