Martin Edwards - Yesterday's papers

They exchanged grins, two advocates who regarded desks as designed for conveyancers and corporate lawyers. ‘It can do without me for a while. Let’s face it, I might still have been sitting behind Patrick Vaulkhard, watching him kebab the police authority’s witnesses.’

‘As a matter of fact,’ she said after a slight pause, ‘there is a meeting of MOJO tomorrow evening in one of the conference rooms at Empire Hall. Our speaker has cancelled at the last minute, so I’ve asked Patrick if he would be willing to talk about the Waltergate case. I wondered if you’d like to join us. That is, if you don’t have anything else planned.’

He looked at her and said, ‘No, I don’t have anything else planned. I’d be delighted to come.’ An idea occurred to him. ‘And will your president, Sir Clive, be there?’

She smiled. ‘I thought you might ask that and the answer is yes. But I hope you won’t look on the evening solely as an opportunity to pump him for more information about the Sefton Park Strangling.’

‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘I won’t.’

Half an hour later, a pleasant middle-aged woman at the reception desk in Jasmine House nodded when Harry said he wanted to see Vincent Deysbrook.

‘That’s lovely. Vincent will be glad to see you. He doesn’t have too many visitors. His son lives in Norfolk and his daughter moved to Sydney and married an Australian. One or two of his old colleagues from the police drop by now and then, but that’s about all. Who shall I say it is?’

‘My name’s Harry Devlin, but that won’t mean anything to Mr Deysbrook. He and I have never met. Even so, I’d be glad of a word if he’s up to it.’

‘I’ll be right back.’

While he waited, Harry glanced around. The long low building stood in an acre of undulating grounds and from here it was hard to believe that a dual carriageway ran past the other side of the spiky trees. The atmosphere was so tranquil that the city might have been a hundred miles away. From one of the shelves opposite the entrance, half a dozen teddy bears grinned at him. Above them were hand-carved wooden trains and fluffy cushions, each individually priced and marked MADE BY THE RESIDENTS. On a noticeboard, posters in pastel colours spoke about bereavement counselling and gave contact names and telephone numbers. They were the only clues to the purpose of this place. Jasmine House, so different from the dank atmosphere of the subterranean world he lightheartedly described as the Land of the Dead, actually was the last home of the dying.

The woman returned, smiling. ‘He’s in better form this morning. Even though he doesn’t know who you are, he said he’d be happy to see you. Remember, though, he tires very easily. And if he asks you for a cigarette, really we’d rather you said no. We don’t have smoking here and it’s done him harm enough already.’

‘He’s suffering from lung cancer?’

She nodded. ‘He’s been with us for three weeks. At first it was simply respite care, but he’s not well enough to go back to his flat. Day by day, we can see him losing strength, but he’s not short of willpower. He’s fighting it, Mr Devlin, he’s fighting it every inch of the way. Would you like to follow me and I’ll show you to the lounge?’

She led him to an L-shaped room overlooking the rear of the building. Outside there was a patio, where a couple of old women were sitting on a bench, feeding the ducks in a small pond. A gaunt man in a dressing gown was in front of the television, flicking through the sports pages of the Daily Mail. When he heard the approaching footsteps, he rose to his feet, wincing with the pain of movement. Even after so many years and the ravages of disease, his features were still recognisable from the grainy photographs in Ken Cafferty’s cuttings captioned Chief Inspector Vincent Deysbrook: ‘Arrest Expected Soon’.

Harry grasped the withered hand. ‘Thanks for seeing me. I won’t take up much of your morning.’

‘Take as much as you want. I’ve not much else to do with it.’ Deysbrook gave a short laugh which turned into a prolonged cough. He waved Harry into one of the armchairs. ‘Stupid, isn’t it? My time’s running out and yet I find myself feeling bloody bored.’

‘I’ve never been inside a hospice before. I didn’t know what to expect, but certainly not something so…’

‘Peaceful?’ Deysbrook nodded. ‘It’s a good place and the staff do a grand job. I just wish I wasn’t a bloody resident, that’s all. You wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, by any chance?’

‘I gave them up a couple of years ago.’

‘Wish I’d never started. Maybe if I’d broken the habit sooner, I wouldn’t be here. Ah well, no use fretting over what might have been. Besides, I’ve always liked my cigarettes. All right, then, Mr Harry Devlin, what can I do for you?’

‘I’m a solicitor in town and lately I’ve been looking into the murder of Carole Jeffries in Sefton Park.’

The old man gave him a sharp look. ‘What in God’s name for? It was over and done with thirty years back.’

‘You remember the case?’

‘I’ll never forget it,’ said Deysbrook huskily. ‘Never. That poor young girl with everything ahead of her. Her life snuffed out by a pathetic worm.’

‘I believe Edwin Smith was innocent.’

‘Rubbish.’ Anger brought spots of colour to Deysbrook’s chalky cheeks and his mouth hardened. He had to fight for breath before he continued. ‘Look, it was an open and shut case. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Last night I spoke to someone who gave Smith an alibi.’

‘They were having you on. The man confessed and pleaded guilty into the bargain.’

‘It isn’t unknown for innocent fools to confess to crimes.’

‘We didn’t kick that confession out of Smith, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘It certainly isn’t. I can understand why you didn’t look any further.’

Deysbrook gave him a suspicious glare. He was a tall man, around the six-foot mark at least, but although his body frame was large, his clothes hung loosely over his wasted trunk and limbs. Harry guessed that the illness had shrunk him by as much as eighty pounds.

‘I never cared much for defence lawyers, Mr Devlin, I’ll tell you straight. In my experience, they’ll twist the truth any way they can to get their clients off the hook.’

‘Whatever I find out can’t help Smith. I’m not here to defend him, simply to learn a little more about the case.’

‘A do-gooder, eh?’ Deysbrook made a derisive noise. ‘The world’s full of them. People who like to say that black is white. Even if a bent brief can’t help a criminal to walk out of court with a smirk on his face, you always find some social worker or probation officer willing to blame society for his rapes and muggings.’

‘I’m no bleeding heart, Mr Deysbrook, and I’m not here to throw mud at the police investigation or at you personally. My only interest is to find out what really happened, not to make a fast buck.’

‘I thought you said you were a lawyer?’

Harry grinned. ‘Ouch. I’d like to explain how I come to be involved.’

‘You’d better,’ said Deysbrook without a smile.

The story did not take long to tell. Deysbrook listened carefully. In coming here, Harry had expected hostility. The retired detective was a sick man and no-one welcomes the news that they have been badly mistaken in a matter of life and death. Yet he sensed that Deysbrook’s instinct was to give him a fair hearing.

‘And what makes you think the woman isn’t telling a pack of lies?’

‘Did you never rely on your own nose for the truth?’

Deysbrook grunted. ‘Often enough. But all the lawyers I ever knew liked hard evidence. Something they could see in black and white.’