Martin Edwards: Suspicious Minds

No scope existed for further debate. Harry said thanks for the tea and it was time he was going and Alison did not persuade him to stay. Cathy followed him out into the narrow hallway.

“Look,” she said as she opened the front door, “Alison means everything to me, do you hear? Everything. I won’t have her harmed. You may think you mean well, but your finding us is the most dangerous thing to have happened since we came out. How can we trust you to be discreet?”

“I hate to sound pompous, Cathy, but I’m a man of my word.”

“You’re a man. Full stop.”

“Part of the dreaded freemasonry, is that what you mean? Shitty, deceitful, not to be depended on?”

“Something like that.”

Harry had sympathised with Alison, understood her motives and fears. Yet Doreen Capstick and Jack Stirrup, whatever their faults, had suffered through not knowing her fate. He suspected Cathy of stiffening Alison’s resolve not to get in touch and felt a surge of dislike for this large, powerful woman, with her cynical green eyes and her manipulative ways.

“Then you’ll just have to wait in suspense wondering when my weak knees will finally give way.”

With that, he had shambled down the street towards the nearest pub. Now in the dark warmth of the M.G. he asked himself for the first time whether he would indeed cave in when Jack Stirrup pressed, as he surely would, to be told where his wife was hiding?

Speeding through a traffic light as amber turned to red, he decided that attack must be the best form of defence. Rather than fret about Stirrup’s demands for information, he must seize the initiative. A road sign loomed up: straight on for the Mersey Tunnel. He put his foot down. No time like the present. He would go to Prospect House tonight and find out for himself whether Jack Stirrup was a killer or simply a crude hoaxer.

“I asked you last week if you thought I’d done away with Alison.” Jack Stirrup didn’t want to be overheard by the woman in the adjoining room, but his voice was husky with suppressed anger. “On the way to the Majestic. Remember?”

“I remember,” said Harry. So long ago it seemed, a time when Claire was alive and he’d thought that Alison was dead.

“You dodged the issue. Typical bloody lawyer. You weren’t willing to take my word. Will you take it now? Once again: I-did-not-murder-Margaret.”

He drilled home each word as if addressing a halfwit, then sat back in his armchair with folded arms, challenging Harry to disbelief.

The clock chimed eleven. They were in the drawing room of Prospect House. Outside the builders’ skip had gone. Stirrup had abandoned the renovations as soon as he’d decided to put the place on the market. With no Alison and now no Claire, already it resembled a museum rather than somewhere people might live. Big wooden crates of belongings stood in the hall.

Harry had come to confront Stirrup, to break the news that the guilty secret was out. To his dismay Rita Buxton answered the door. She had kindly offered to help with the packing, according to Stirrup, but the buttons undone on her creased mauve blouse told a different story. Now she sat on the sofa next door, watching a Burt Reynolds movie, waiting for Harry to leave.

When he’d announced Alison was alive, Stirrup’s involuntary flinch betrayed dismay, not delight. His recovery had been swift, but not swift enough to dispel the memory of that first reaction of alarm. All the same, the instinct of self-preservation was strong. He interrupted with a fierce denial before Harry came to the end of Alison’s explanation for disappearing without trace.

“Never. No way. I loved Margaret. Our marriage was all right. Okay, we had our ups and downs but so do all couples. You know that as well as anyone, after all.”

Passing his tongue over dry lips, he’d continued talking, almost as if to convince himself.

“It was an accident, what happened to her, a terrible accident. Nothing to do with me. The brakes were gone. I always blamed the garage, but nothing could be proved. Margaret took a bend too fast, it was over in a second. No one ever hinted at anything sinister. The police were satisfied — for once.”

Listening, Harry drummed his fingers on the table at his side. Each time Stirrup opened his mouth, he gained in conviction. Even assuming he was guilty, he’d had plenty of time to prepare a plausible defence. And he wasn’t fool enough to deny that he had tried to frighten Alison when she threatened to walk out on him by claiming to have murdered Margaret.

“Okay, it was stupid of me. I was desperate, willing to clutch at anything. Wouldn’t any man fight to keep the woman in his life?”

Harry thought back to the dreadful night when Liz had confessed her love for another man. He hadn’t threatened or cajoled or begged. He’d simply stared at the floor and in the end surrendered to what seemed inevitable. If he had not — this was what tortured him whenever he was careless enough to let his mind stray towards what might have been — she might be alive today. Who could be sure of the right thing to do? Perhaps, despite its crudity and its ultimate failure, Stirrup’s response had been the more courageous. Perhaps he rather than his client should have handled things differently.

Hard as he found it to accept that Alison would be terrified by a mere cock-and-bull story, his job was not to act as judge and jury. Guesswork and intuition fell far short of knowledge. In the absence of proof that Stirrup was lying, Harry knew he ought to accept what he was told.

“Okay, Jack. So it’s all been a terrible misunderstanding. The fact remains, Alison doesn’t see it like that.”

“Where is she?”

“Like I said, I can’t tell you.”

“Now look, you’re supposed to be my man, remember? What kind of lawyer are you?”

“A tired, confused and probably incompetent one. That’s beside the point. I told her I had to let you know she was alive. Nothing more. As for Bolus, I’ll call him tomorrow morning.”

Stirrup said through gritted teeth. “She’s my wife, Harry. Have you forgotten?”

“No. But the marriage is over. Clearest case of irretrievable breakdown I’ve ever seen. And now you have Rita.”

“I want to talk to Alison. Find out what the bloody hell she’s been playing at.”

“Can’t be done. At least, not until she changes her mind. And for that, I don’t recommend you hold your breath.”

Stirrup swore, but Harry gazed at him without blinking. He hadn’t mentioned anything about Cathy Morgan, had simply confirmed Alison’s determination to carve out a new life under an assumed name and in a different town.

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it, Jack. Sorry. She’s alive and well, that’s all you need to know. End of the pressure from Bolus — Doreen too, come to that. Alison’s no wish to see either you or her mother again. So the time’s come to get on with the rest of your life. For your own sake as much as hers.”

“And that’s your best professional advice?”

“For what it’s worth.”

“Which is bugger all.” Stirrup lumbered to his feet. “All right, Harry, piss off. You’re not my solicitor as from this moment. Send me your bill for work up to date. I won’t quibble about the sums. I’m not the untrustworthy bastard you think I am.”

Harry stood up. Far from coming as a surprise, the parting of their ways was unavoidable, had been from the moment he’d assured Alison he wouldn’t reveal her whereabouts. He extended his hand.

“Okay, Jack. I’ll be off. I’m sorry it’s…”

“Save it.” Stirrup ignored the outstretched hand and jerked his head in the direction of the door. “You know the way out.”