Martin Edwards: Yesterday's papers

‘And that’s the same…?’

‘Yes, today Benny Frederick runs a thriving business specialising, I believe, in the field of corporate videos. You may have come across it yourself. But thirty years ago he had taken over his father’s old firm and started making a name for himself with his portraits of many of the stars of — ah — the Swinging Sixties.’

Miller was unable to disguise the mockery in his voice. He spoke as though he was describing a risible alien culture. ‘Nevertheless,’ he added, ‘Guy would have expected Carole at least to leave a message. He and Kathleen rang around her friends and, drawing a blank, became alarmed. The girl had mentioned herself that the boyfriend would be out of town that night and so there was no question of her having sloped off with him. Finally Kathleen called the police. The Jeffries were an influential couple and their concern was taken seriously. A constable came round and his first thought was to check the park.’

‘Hadn’t Guy already done so?’

‘Only in a cursory way, it seems. In any event, looking methodically under every thicket, the policeman soon discovered her corpse.’

‘Was it hidden?’

‘The killer — presumably — had pulled it into the bushes, but made little attempt at camouflage. The young policeman must have had an eagle’s eyes to discover poor Carole in darkness, but her body would have been found the next morning in any event.’

‘And the ligature? Was that left on the scene?’

‘Carole’s own scarf was knotted around her throat. The murderer seems to have made no attempt to remove it. As you may know, that is not uncommon in strangulation cases. One can guess that she was no longer a pretty sight. “Purple lips and ears, froth and blood-staining about the mouth, the tongue forced outward, the hands clenched” — these are the typical signs of asphyxia. I quote, of course, from that eminent pathologist, Sir Sydney Smith.’

Even at thirty years’ remove, Harry found himself repelled by the picture Miller was sketching and by the relish with which he was sketching it. Murder fascinates everyone, Harry thought, because of the hints it gives of the darkest recesses of the human soul. But the act of killing and its physical consequences seemed to him obscene, and to exult in them, he felt, was akin to drooling over a pornographic film.

He drained his glass. His earlier mood of cautious tolerance towards Miller was evaporating. Yet he felt impelled to satisfy his curiosity. ‘How long did it take the police to fasten on to Edwin Smith?’

‘They picked him up within twenty-four hours.’

‘And the boyfriend, what about him?’

Miller pursed his lips in disapproval. ‘Ray Brill — that was what he called himself. Perhaps it was a pseudonym, I am not sure.’

Harry reached back into his memory and his treasury of pop music trivia. ‘Of the Brill Brothers? Is that the man?’

‘Again you are well informed. Yes, that was the name of his — ah — duo.’

‘Was he ever a suspect?’

‘A good question. In the press reports which I have seen, he expresses shock and horror at the outrage. Yet one would expect nothing less from a cruel and ruthless killer — if such he was.’

‘And Smith hired Cyril Tweats?’

‘His mother did, yes. The family had money and I gather that Tweats was a popular defence solicitor of the time, but if I may be blunt, the choice of representative was not a happy one.’ Again he spoke in a knowing way that gave the impression he had something else up his sleeve.

Sharply, Harry said, ‘And what made you approach me?’

‘When I discovered that the firm of Tweats and Company no longer exists, I called at the office of the local law society. They told me Mr Tweats had sold his practice shortly before Christmas to you and your partner, Mr Crusoe.’

‘Have you spoken to Cyril himself?’

‘As yet, no, for two reasons. First, when I asked about you and your firm, I was told you have something of a name for digging into cases where the truth has yet to come out. I gather you have a weakness for a mystery, but people seem to think you are a man who strives to see the right thing done. Frankly, I hoped you would sympathise with my own instinct to investigate and be willing to offer a little practical assistance.’

‘Flattery won’t necessarily get you everywhere. What was the second reason?’

‘Any approach I may make to Mr Tweats will need to be judged with delicacy. I have to say — I trust I do not offend you — it seems possible that, if Edwin Smith pleaded guilty, he did so as a result of receiving less than the best advice.’

‘I won’t pretend Cyril was a latter-day Marshall Hall, but I’m not clear about exactly what you’re looking for.’

‘I have taken pains to trace the present whereabouts of the main surviving actors in the drama. Guy is dead, of course, and so is Edwin Smith’s barrister. The detective who headed the inquiry is a sick man, by all accounts, and Carole’s mother a semi-recluse. But I plan to talk to as many people as I can over the course of the next few days. I hope to hear from Smith’s former girlfriend, and perhaps I’ll catch up with the young man Carole was courting at the time of her death. Meanwhile, I have gone as far as I can in researching the case through paperwork available to the public. I cannot hope to gain access to the police records. But there will, I expect, still be an office file somewhere in your archives. I would be interested to see it. There is just a faint possibility that it may contain information which helps me in my quest.’

‘To decide whether Smith was innocent?’

‘And, if he was, perhaps to gain a clearer idea of who might have been guilty.’

‘You’ll be lucky.’

‘Indeed I may,’ said Miller. His teeth glinted in the harsh yellow light as he added, ‘Think of it, Mr Devlin. To discover the truth now, after all these years, wouldn’t that be a prize? Think of old Mrs Smith and what it would mean to have her son exculpated at long last. And that is not all. Who knows, one might even have the opportunity to identify the person who took advantage of Smith’s scapegoat role and succeeded — yes! — in getting away with murder.’

The man was enjoying himself, Harry felt sure. Never mind the convicted man’s mother: he was treating his enquiries as a game. And in that moment, Harry made up his mind about Ernest Miller. He was too shrewd to be dismissed as a meddlesome old fool with a bee in his bonnet; there was nothing blind or self-deceiving about his confidence that Smith had not committed the crime. Yet Harry sensed he was a man who, for all his bookish air, would like to take his pleasure recklessly. A man who might relish it all the more if the game he was playing became dangerous.

‘I’m making no promises,’ Harry said to Miller as they stood on the doorstep of the Wallace.

‘I would not expect them. After all, you are a lawyer.’ Miller gave a thin smile. ‘I hope only that I have said enough to tantalise you, to make you anxious to know rather more about the killing of Carole Jeffries, even after thirty years.’

‘I can’t even be sure we’ll still have the original papers. And if we do…’

‘Naturally, I understand there is the question of professional confidentiality, although on this occasion, since the client has long been in his grave, I anticipate no practical objection. However, you may have other qualms about making any disclosures to me. As successor in practice to Cyril Tweats, you may be conscious of the risk of being tarnished by potential criticism of the way he handled Edwin Smith’s defence.’