Martin Edwards - Yesterday's papers

Harry grinned. ‘I’d say “trust me”, but I don’t expect you’re the kind of chap who trusts anyone and I can’t blame you for that.’

‘Mr Devlin, you strike me as tolerably honest, if that is not damning you with too much faint praise.’ Miller passed him the file. ‘Here you will find a few odds and ends that your partner might need in preparing the document. No doubt you will return them to me when the will is ready for signature.’

‘It won’t take long. I’ll ask him to let you have it as soon as possible.’ He glanced inside the folder and picked out a small booklet and a clip of yellowing papers. ‘I see you have a pension and some insurance. What did you do when you were working?’

‘I was personnel manager with a small firm of printers in the city. I spent years doing battle with the trade unions, but in the end it was computerisation which hit us hardest. I made half the workforce redundant and then found myself out of a job as well.’

Harry nodded. So much for Jim’s belief that technology was the answer to everything, he thought. Along with its benefits, it brought cuts in employment: not all the changes it made to people’s lives were for the better.

‘I’ve seen it happen before.’

‘Perhaps it was for the best,’ said Miller. ‘I had always suffered badly from asthma and I found the pressures of business life were becoming intolerable. Besides, I realised in the end that I was not ideally suited to the work I was doing and in particular my role as welfare officer.’ He smiled his discomfiting smile. ‘People have always intrigued me, you see. Yet eventually I discovered I like very few of them.’

‘Misanthropy isn’t the ideal qualification if you’re planning to reincarnate as a solicitor.’

‘But you do not have primarily a welfare role. You delve for facts, organise them, then present your case. It does not matter if you loathe your client. You certainly need not love him.’

‘Maybe it’s as well,’ said Harry, thinking of the thieves, rapists and murderers for whom he had acted over the years.

‘As for Mr Tweats, my impression is that his main concern was to wash his hands of young Smith. He never seems for a second to have doubted his guilt.’

‘But you must agree that the evidence was damning. How could Smith have known about the scarf, for instance, unless he actually committed the murder?’

‘Could it be that he saw Carole Jeffries wearing the scarf that day and, knowing she had been strangled, made a fortunate guess at the murderer’s means?’

‘But why?’

‘I am no psychiatrist, Mr Devlin. I cannot explain the workings of an inadequate mind. But that is my best guess, following my telephone conversation with Renata Grierson.’

‘What did she tell you?’

‘At first she was most reluctant to say anything, but when I pressed her, eventually she said that she was positive that it was impossible for Edwin Smith to have killed Carole Jeffries. When I asked why, all she would say was that she had not learned of that impossibility until after Smith’s own death. Hence her silence until now. Evidently I am the first person in whom she has confided the truth.’ Miller gave a satisfied smile. ‘So far she has been reluctant to divulge all she knows about the case but I am hopeful that soon she will be more forthcoming. I plan to meet her in the near future, but in the meantime I think you will agree that her remarks are as fascinating as they are significant.’

‘It all sounds vague to me. Are you sure she wasn’t simply telling you what she guessed you wanted to hear?’

‘Of course that thought has crossed my mind, but I am happy to trust my instinct. I do not doubt her sincerity.’

‘What of Ray Brill, then? Did he shed any light?’

Miller fiddled with the buttons of his coat. Harry could sniff evasion in the air. ‘He was unable to add anything of substance so far as the murder of Carole was concerned. Although he had seen her on the morning of the twenty-ninth of February, he then set off to London in the company of his singing partner, Ian Brill. There was no way that he could have been the culprit.’

Miller was choosing his words with even more care than usual. Taking a leaf out of Patrick Vaulkhard’s book, Harry decided that gentle flattery was the method most likely to draw him out. ‘You have obviously been busy. How many other people involved with the case are you hoping to see?’

‘Frankly, Mr Devlin, I am far from sure. Benny Frederick and Clive Doxey, of course, are in the public eye and easy enough to find, should I wish to do so. Renata proved by far the most elusive of those connected with the case: in the end, I had to resort to advertising in the local press. All I knew was her maiden name, but happily she saw my advert and called me up. It was much easier to trace the whereabouts of Kathleen Jeffries; Shirley, the girl with whom Carole worked; and Deysbrook, the policeman who headed the murder team. Fortunately, all of them still live in Merseyside.’

‘Did Kathleen ever remarry?’

Miller shook his head. ‘By all accounts, she has been something of a recluse since her husband died.’

‘And Shirley, what has happened to her?’

‘Thirty years ago, her surname was Basnett. She has changed it several times since then. I gather her third husband, a man named Titchard, died recently, leaving her a wealthy widow.’

‘So you might speak to each of them?’

‘As I say, I may decide to change my original plans. After all, I have established to my own satisfaction that Smith was not guilty of the crime. On reflection it would, perhaps, be hoping for too much if I were to press on with my investigation in the vain belief that I might be able to identify her killer.’

‘That’s not the way you were talking when we first met.’

‘Perhaps I became carried away with myself on that occasion. But I feel I shall probably rest content once I have met and talked in greater detail to Renata Grierson and ascertained precisely why she is so confident that Edwin Smith was no murderer.’ Miller smiled his infuriating smile and handed back the old Tweats file. ‘Thank you, Mr Devlin. I do appreciate your help.’

Harry found himself becoming irritated. At the precise moment when Miller had aroused his curiousity in the Sefton Park case, the old man was giving the impression that his own enthusiasm was beginning to wane. Or was he simply seeking to discourage further inquiries now that he had seen Cyril Tweats’ papers? Harry decided it was time to tease him.

He tucked the file under his arm and said casually, ‘Better look after this. I have the idea you aren’t the only person interested in it.’

He felt a childish sense of gratification to see Miller’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Oh really?’

‘My office was burgled during the night. Nothing seems to have been stolen and it crossed my mind that the intruder might have been looking for this.’

Miller stared at him. Harry had the impression that the old man’s mind was working rapidly, but when he spoke again, his manner was elaborately patronising. ‘A far-fetched notion, surely? You and I are the only people who knew of my interest in the file.’

‘Unless,’ said Harry gently, ‘you happened to mention it to Renata Grierson, say — or Ray Brill.’

‘Oh… I am sure I did not. No, Mr Devlin, you are mistaken. Depend upon it.’

But looking at Ernest Miller’s pensive expression, Harry suspected that he had made no mistake.

‘Is he dying?’ demanded Jim Crusoe an hour later.

‘Not as far as I’m aware,’ said Harry. ‘Miller is one of those characters who always seems to be ailing but the old bugger will probably outlive the lot of us.’