Martin Edwards: Suspicious Minds

Police are searching for a man who raped a fourteen-year-old girl at Eastham Country Park yesterday evening. Detectives have declined to give further information but it’s believed they are linking the incident with a rape committed by a masked man last month on the Wirral Way and several other recent attacks on teenage girls with fair hair. The man has been dubbed “The Beast” because the masks he wears have animals’ faces. The police have warned of the need for extra vigilance until he is caught.

“That bastard,” said Stirrup. “When they get hold of him they ought to cut his balls off. Then lock him up and throw away the key.”

“He’ll be some pathetic sod. Most sex offenders are.”

Stirrup’s snort expressed disgust for namby-pamby tolerance. “Easy for you to say, I’ve got a teenage girl to think about. One of her mates from school was raped by that pervert only a few weeks ago.”

Harry could understand a father’s angry apprehension, although The Beast’s victims were all supposed to have had blonde hair whereas Claire was dark. But to expect Stirrup to take comfort from the past consistency of a sick mind was asking too much. On the radio, news gave way to sports and talk of nothing more criminal than England’s batting in the last Test Match.

They reached the sprawling outskirts of Birkenhead, passing the strange oasis of Port Sunlight, a garden village in the midst of a slough of urban despond, built by a soap millionaire to house his workers. On the opposite side of the dual carriageway the head office of Stirrup Wines stood in functional, flat-roofed contrast to Lord Leverhulme’s prettified estate. Jack Stirrup’s major contribution to the local landscape had been to put up a flagpole in the visitors’ car park.

“Ta for the lift. And the help this morning. You must come over to my place. Never mind the Majestic, sample Claire’s cooking. Tell you the truth, I’d eat her stuff rather than Ali’s any day. But don’t tell that bloody Bolus. He’ll be thinking I did away with her ‘cause I couldn’t stomach her grub.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

They shook hands. “How about dinner tonight? You’d be very welcome. My girl can rustle something up, no problem. What do you say?”

Harry had other plans for the evening. But Stirrup was insistent and made him promise to phone later once he had checked whether he could unscramble a previous, unspecified commitment.

“Half-eight do you? I’ll call Claire soon as you let me know. I won’t be away from here much before seven. With no right hand man and half a day wasted in the nick, there’s plenty to do.”

Harry nodded a farewell, his mind already turning to what lay ahead for him that night. He did not intend it to be a meal with a suspected murderer.

Queen Victoria was still not amused. Her black statue frowned down at Harry from beneath its green cupola as he walked across Derby Square. He winked at the monarch on his way to the Law Courts, a gesture misinterpreted by a woman strolling in the opposite direction. She hurried off, as if convinced that she was about to become The Beast’s latest victim, causing Harry a qualm of guilt. But as he pushed through the revolving doors of the court building, he couldn’t help whistling a Beatles’ song from the days before the Cavern became a car park: “Love Me Do.”

Once on the first floor he followed the corridor which led to the rooms reserved for lawyers. Pleasure flooded through him as he turned the last corner and saw Valerie Kaiwar, deep in conversation with Quentin Pike.

“At least justice has been done,” she was saying.

“In that case, appeal at once,” said Harry lightly. “Hello Quentin, saved another criminal from punishment?”

“Thanks to Miss Kaiwar here. A most capable piece of advocacy, in my opinion.” Pike beamed. He looked more like Billy Bunter with every year that passed, but remained one of the city’s shrewdest solicitors. Harry was conscious of being scrutinised by porcine, bespectacled eyes.

“Congratulations,” said Harry. “But don’t let that fool you, Valerie. He’ll haggle over your next brief fee just as if your man had been sent to the gallows.”

“I was representing a woman, actually,” said Valerie Kaiwar. Her tone was not sarcastic: simply flat, as if the strain of pleading on her client’s behalf had drained the strength from her frail body. “Accused of sticking a pair of kitchen scissors into her boyfriend’s stomach. The fact that he’d beaten her black and blue for years, put her in hospital twice, didn’t enter into it as far as the police were concerned.”

“Typical chauvinism,” said Harry. But as soon as he spoke, he knew he had struck the wrong note. Val was still keyed up, not in the mood for swapping poor jokes.

Pike sensed it too. “I’ll be off, then. Many thanks once again, Miss Kaiwar. A splendid performance.”

With a wave of his pudgy hand he was gone. Harry turned to the woman. The severe black and white of her professional uniform complemented her honey-coloured skin. Something about her smooth high-boned cheeks made him want to touch them. But now wasn’t the time or place. Instead he asked her about the day’s events in court.

“Probation,” she said, brushing a wisp of black hair off her face. “A good result in the circumstances. Though I’d bet a pound to a penny that before the year’s out she’s living with the brute again. Some women never learn.”

Harry thought briefly of his dead wife, of how he had yearned for Liz even after years of drifting apart from her, even after learning of her infidelity, sometimes even now, almost eighteen months after her violent death. Some men, too, never learned.

But he simply said, “Going back to chambers? I’ll come with you, carry your papers.”

They walked together through the commercial centre of Liverpool without speaking. He could tell she was re-living the battle she had fought and won, getting the tension of the case out of her system in readiness for tomorrow’s brush against the cobwebs of justice. For his part, Harry thought of telling her about his morning with Stirrup, confiding his uncertainty about Alison’s fate. But it would keep until the evening. He had in mind a meal at the flat and the previous day had bought a vegetarian cook book especially to cater to her tastes. He was normally a microwave man, and he preferred red meat to lentils any day, but the plan was to wash everything down with plenty of wine and see how things developed from there.

Now and then passers-by gave them a second, curious glance. In the dying years of the century, some people still seemed to think it strange to see a white man in the company of a dark-skinned woman. And Valerie and he were an odd couple in more ways than one. She was small, delicate and smart, with a burning determination implicit in every step she took along the street. Harry was solidly built and shambling in his gait. No onlooker would doubt for an instant which of the two of them knew the way ahead.

At a news-stand he picked up the early evening edition of one of the local papers and glanced at the front page. beast strikes again shrieked the headline. By his side, Valerie made a hissing noise through her teeth.

“What kind of society is it where the women aren’t safe to walk through a park in daylight?”

“How would you feel,” he asked gently, “about defending the culprit when he’s finally caught?”

He heard a sharp intake of breath, as if she were about to explode with rage at the very idea. But no words came. He could tell that she was confronting the prospect: how one day her unshakable faith in the sanctity of the defence lawyer’s role might commit her to pleading on behalf of a man who had repeatedly violated young women.