Martin Edwards - Yesterday's papers

‘We’re going to make ’em sweat,’ confirmed Kevin. In his wife’s presence, he seemed to need to assert his identity, to make it clear that he was relishing the occasion.

Jeannie nudged Harry in the ribs. ‘Uh-oh. The Gnome’s coming over here.’

She had thus christened the barrister representing the police authority and Harry had to admit the truth in her gibe. Gordon Summerbee was a tubby man with a red moustache and beard who looked as though he was born to hold a fishing line and squint out over a herbaceous border.

‘Patrick,’ he said, ‘I wonder if we might have a word?’

As the two barristers moved off into a corner, Kevin gave Harry a wink. ‘What d’you reckon?’

‘Fingers crossed.’

‘Whatever they offer,’ said Jeannie, ‘it can never be enough. Not after what my Kevin’s been through.’

She gave her husband a smile, intended to be fond, which put Harry in mind of a miser beaming at his gold.

Kevin nodded vigorously and said, ‘Y’know, I could never have made it without Jeannie.’

His wife preened, but did not forget to utter the sentiment she always expressed in her interviews. ‘I’ve only done what any woman would do in the same terrible circumstances.’

She shrugged her overcoat off her shoulders and passed it to Harry, who in her presence often felt like a courtier. Today she was dressed for the photographers, wearing a tight black jersey

and a microscopic skirt which revealed seemingly endless legs. Her impressive bosom bore in extravagant orange stitching the legend WALTERGATE — MY KEV WAS INNOCENT.

Her Kev said excitedly, ‘Bugger me, that was quick. He’s coming back already.’

Harry could tell it was good news. Vaulkhard was walking towards them with a sportsman’s swagger.

‘Well?’ demanded Jeannie. ‘What have they said?’

‘The authority is now willing to make a much improved offer.’

‘So I should bloody well hope,’ said Kevin.

‘How much?’ asked his wife.

‘You need to consider their proposal with care.’

The way he’s dragging it out, thought Harry, it must be well into six figures.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Jeannie impatiently.

Vaulkhard named the sum on offer. It was far more than Harry had expected, more even than he had hoped for in his most optimistic moments.

Kevin whistled. ‘That’s more like it!’

‘Shut up,’ Jeannie snapped. She addressed Vaulkhard. ‘We want another thirty thousand.’

The foxy features twitched. ‘I really would advise…’

‘Another thirty,’ she repeated, ‘or we go back into court.’

Vaulkhard looked at her and then at her husband. ‘If they withdraw the offer…’

‘They won’t withdraw it,’ said Jeannie. ‘Go back and tell them we fight on unless they decide to be more realistic.’

A spasm of uncertainty creased Kevin’s face. He turned to Harry. ‘What d’you think?’

‘It’s a gamble, Kevin, but if you’re willing to…’

‘Listen,’ cut in Jeannie. ‘We’ve bloody gambled all the way along the line. Now we’ve got them in a corner and I’m betting they’ll cave in.’

‘It’s your decision,’ said Vaulkhard sombrely.

‘Too bloody right,’ she said.

Chewing his lower lip, Kevin said, ‘Look, love…’

‘What are you waiting for?’ she demanded of the barrister. ‘Go on. Put it to them.’

‘Very well.’

As Vaulkhard walked back to where Summerbee and his cohorts were standing, Kevin swore softly.

‘Jeannie, if you fuck this up…’

‘Listen. You’d still be sewing sodding mailbags if it wasn’t for me. Now all you need do is keep your trap shut and wait for the busies to cave in.’

As they bickered, Harry’s thoughts strayed. What would the late Edwin Smith not have given for a last taste of freedom, he wondered, let alone the prospect of financial recompense?

A new note of urgency in Jeannie’s voice brought him back to the here and now. ‘Look, Paddy’s on his way back!’

Harry needed merely to glance at the barrister to know that the miracle had occurred. Vaulkhard had on his face an uncharacteristic expression of wonder, like that of a child at Christmas time.

‘Well, what did they say?’ called Jeannie. ‘Don’t keep us in suspense!’

‘I must congratulate you, Jeannie, on your eye for a bargaining position.’

‘You mean,’ demanded Kevin, who always wanted things spelled out, ‘the busies have actually agreed to the extra thirty?’

‘Every penny.’

The couple stared at each other, then each let out a whoop of joy that had the tabloid hacks a few yards away scrambling for their pencils and notebooks. But Jeannie, the true professional, composed herself within seconds.

‘It’s a lot of money,’ she said in a grave tone, ‘but cash can never compensate for what we have suffered.’

She was right, reflected Harry. Cash could not redress every wrong. What of Edwin Smith, he thought again, what if there was indeed a chance to clear his name? In this case money genuinely did not matter. Only if the real murderer of Carole Jeffries was identified could justice finally be seen to be done.

The Walters’ jubilant press conference over and done with, Harry walked back to the office with Ronald Sou. As usual, the clerk did not encourage conversation: he could make the average Trappist seem like a chatterbox. Harry found himself wondering what Ronald really made of their clients. The only clue he had was the quirk of Ronald’s lips when Jeannie told the man from The Sun that the court case had not been about money, but a matter of principle.

He had to admit that it was a perfect outcome for Crusoe and Devlin as well. Even on legal aid rates, the fees would smooth the wrinkled brow of their accountant for a long time to come. The only snag was that Jim would want to invest the proceeds in more information technology, while Harry would have been content with a quill pen and a few scraps of vellum. At present the only information he was anxious for was whatever Ernest Miller had kept in the missing red file.

When they reached New Commodities House, he headed straight for his office. Lying where he had left it on his desk was Cyril Tweats’ file for Edwin Smith. He picked it up and tucked it under his arm. He had finally convinced himself that the burglary here and the disappearance of Miller’s papers were no coincidence. The file was best kept in a safe place. The sooner he returned it to the Land of the Dead, the better.

Jim poked his head around the door. ‘The conquering hero!’

‘You’ve heard?’

‘Ronald has just given me the glad tidings. He was beside himself with excitement, by which I mean he gave me a half-smile. How about a celebration drink at lunchtime?’

‘Love to.’ He gestured to the file under his arm. ‘And I’ll tell you the story of Cyril Tweats’ unluckiest client.’

With that he set off for the Pierhead. Crossing the Strand, he saw Kim Lawrence fifty yards ahead of him and put on a spurt to catch her up.

‘Not in court this morning?’

She seemed genuinely pleased to see him. ‘I’ve done my duty. A number of my clients were charged with breach of the peace. They’re anti-nuclear campaigners, and they threw eggs at a junior industry minister who won’t be content until even our tap water is radioactive.’

‘Is every case a crusade with you?’

She gave him a long look. ‘I hope so. And besides, you don’t do so badly yourself. The place was buzzing with news of the Waltergate settlement. Well done.’

She was not a woman who gave out compliments like calling cards and he felt himself blushing. Quickly, he said, ‘Patrick Vaulkhard handled the negotiations. I took a back seat.’