Martin Edwards: Suspicious Minds

Once outside the house Harry allowed himself the indulgence of a self-reproaching groan. He had achieved the worst of all worlds. Crusoe and Devlin had waved goodbye to their biggest client and any chance of cutting a slice off their overdraft in the foreseeable future. And for what? A promise given to a woman whom he did not know any more. An unnecessary promise, if Stirrup was telling the truth now and his claim to have killed Margaret was a lie invented to keep Alison.

On the way home he wrestled with his dilemma. Had he been unfair to Stirrup? The man had lost his wife and daughter in quick succession. He might be to blame for the first misfortune; the second was quite outside his control.

As Harry drove and turned his thoughts to Claire, her behaviour before her death started to bother him again. He had meant to ask someone — was it Gina Jean-Jacques? — a question and had failed to do so. Now he’d let it slip his mind, the more he strained for recollection, the more elusive it became.

Back in Empire Dock, his flat seemed as barren of life as Prospect House. If only Valerie were waiting for him. What would she be doing now? If he had the guts to pick up the phone, he could ask her over. It was late, yet she might be willing to come.

He dialled the number which he’d committed to memory weeks before. The tone kept ringing, insistent and repetitive.

Come on, he muttered into the mouthpiece. Surely you’re not out on the town tonight?

Finally he heard a click at the other end. A man spoke. Sounding weary, as though he’d just climbed out of bed.

“Hello?”

Harry froze, unable to utter a word.

“Hello? Hello?” A note of irritation crept in. “Hello? Who’s that?”

The man banged the receiver down in evident disgust. Harry maintained his grip on the handset for another minute before he slowly put it down.

Of course he had recognised the voice. It belonged to Julian Hamer.

Through the keyhole he could see Valerie in her room at Balliol Chambers. The place was dark except for the glare of the desk lamp on her face. Her lips were open, as if she were trying to scream, but Harry couldn’t hear a sound. Her eyes were following the movement towards her of something out of his line of vision; her pupils dilated in terror even as he watched. Harry grasped the door knob, squeezing it so hard that it began to crack in his hand, but she had locked him out. And locked someone else in with her. An unseen hand switched on the overhead light and Harry saw that Valerie was powerless to defend herself. Her arms and ankles were tied by thick cord to the chair on which she sat. Into view came the stooped back of a man in waistcoat, white shirt and pinstripe trousers. He approached her slowly, as if relishing her fear. In his hands was a black silk cravat, knotted into a ligature. Valerie shut her eyes and bowed her head, surrendering to her fate. The man bent over her and at last Harry found the strength to cry out.

“No!”

The man turned round and Harry saw at last the face of The Beast. A wolf’s face, teeth bared in a savage grin. Then The Beast raised a gloved hand and peeled the rubber mask away. To leave Harry staring into the mocking eyes of Julian Hamer.

Suddenly he woke. He was naked and in his restlessness he had cast off the duvet, yet his skin was sticky with sweat. His bedroom was as dark as Valerie’s chambers in his dream. A glance at the alarm clock told him it was ten to four. The sun had not yet risen. Even at this hour it was so hot that his limbs ached and the lack of air made it hard to breathe.

For a while he lay motionless, angry that he had let his envy of Hamer turn sleep into a torment. Of course he had lost Valerie: he was too experienced at missing out on the good things of life not to recognise the stomach-turning awareness that something worthwhile had slipped out of reach, like a child’s beach ball borne away on the tide.

The clock’s hands had crawled past the hour before he forced himself off the bed and into the living room. There he poured himself a generous measure of Johnnie Walker, downing it at a gulp. The sharp bite of the alcohol made him feel better and the flat somehow less empty. He poured another and settled down in an armchair. This time he did not drink so fast.

He closed his eyes but his mind roamed, trying to pick a path through the maze that had defeated him for so long. Now he realised that the search for Alison had led him to a dead end. And although Stirrup might have murdered his first wife, he could never be convicted if he maintained his categorical denial of guilt. Yet the killing of Claire continued to be a torment. Why had she suffered a fate that did not make sense even in the context of any of The Beast’s previous crimes?

Harry concentrated on images of the dead girl. Claire at Caldy. Claire in Balliol Chambers. Claire’s unexpected visit to Gina Jean-Jacques. Claire’s mysterious trip to West Kirby. Somewhere amongst the childish deceptions of her young life lay, he felt sure, the clue to her death, the reason why The Beast had for the first time abandoned his preference for blondes.

For hours, it seemed, he struggled with the conundrum. Eventually sleep returned and this time he did not dream.

It was half-nine before he awoke once more; neither the alarm nor the shafts of light falling through the narrow gaps in the curtains had stirred him. The day ahead would be long and busy and he was already late. Yet that did not seem to matter. He opened his eyes to the morning and stretched his arms to the heavens, as if freed from a slave’s chains. He felt intensely alive and all-seeing. Now at last he knew the solution. And a solution, what was more, that gave him grim satisfaction.

He rang the office to say he wouldn’t be in until noon at the earliest. Slinging his jacket over his shoulder he headed for the city centre. In Chavasse Park young girls lazed on the grass, soaking up the sun, but he didn’t give them a second glance. Inside ten minutes he was climbing the stairs of Balliol Chambers.

Denise sat behind the desk in reception, her pale pink top revealing tanned flesh. As she caught sight of him she lifted her eyebrows and smiled.

“Oppressive, isn’t it? This must be the hottest day we’ve had yet. They said on the weather forecast that a storm…”

“Where’s Julian?”

She frowned at his brusqueness.

“It’s Mr. Hamer you’d like to see? I didn’t realise a conference was booked.”

“I haven’t an appointment. But I need to see him right now.”

Denise pursed her lips, put out by this breach of professional courtesy.

“Let me see, David Base is having a day off at home. Now where has he put the diary…?”

“If you don’t mind, I’m going straight in.”

Before Denise could utter a protest Harry walked past her and down the corridor. At Julian’s door he knocked briefly and went straight in.

The room was empty. Harry scanned it slowly, as if the barrister might be lurking under his desk or between book shelves, then tried Valerie’s room. No luck there either. She must be out at court. For an instant as he looked round, Harry recalled the nightmare which had woken him earlier that morning. The memory chilled him and he slammed the door on his way out.

“Mr. Hamer’s on a case,” said Denise in reproach. “I could have told you if only you’d waited.”

“Sorry, love. I’m in a hurry. Where is he?”

“The Law Courts. A medical negligence claim.”

“And Valerie?”

“Miss Kaiwar’s over there too. Road traffic.”

Harry raced down the stairs again. The thought that Valerie was in the same building as Hamer gave him a curious sense of unease. Yet nothing dangerous could happen in a court of law. Could it?