Martin Edwards - Yesterday's papers

‘You’re pulling my leg.’

‘Believe me, Ben, I’m deadly serious.’

‘But you’re only sixteen.’

‘Old enough.’

‘Not if your parents object. For God’s sake, you’re not planning to elope to Gretna Green, are you?’

‘It’s a lovely romantic idea, Ben, but it won’t be necessary.’

She had been supremely confident, he recalled. There would be no problem, she insisted, she would tell her father what she wanted and that would be that. He would not refuse her, could not refuse her. Benny had not attempted to argue further, even though he still found it all incredible. He was well aware of Doxey’s relationship with Guy, but despite being himself an incurable nosey parker — as he made the admission, he smiled sweetly at Harry — he had never had a clue that there was anything between Doxey and Carole. Yet the way she giggled with delight at his disbelief did more than anything to persuade him that she was telling the truth. She had no need to lie: she was certain that Clive was captive to her charm and that when she put her question, his answer would be yes.

And that, said Benny, was the last time he’d ever seen her. Carole had gone home to meet Clive and, later, her terrible fate. He had left Shirley in charge of the shop while he went to Anfield to watch the big match. An FA Cup tie which Liverpool had lost to Swansea: a day to remember for every Welshman, and one of the most famous matches in the history of both clubs. Harry had heard his own father talk about that game and shake his head at the recollection of the Swansea goalkeeper’s heroics and the missed penalty kick that cost the home side the match, but he knew that Benny was telling him about it for a reason: to give himself an alibi. When he said that, at the full-time whistle, no-one present could credit that Liverpool had been knocked out of the Cup, he was also saying that no-one in their right mind could credit that he had had either the time or the inclination to go straight from the ground to Sefton Park and strangle Carole Jeffries.

‘You seem to have good recall of the events of thirty years ago,’ Harry had suggested.

‘It isn’t every day someone you know well and like is brutally murdered,’ was the soft reply. ‘These things are apt to stick in your mind.’

‘Carole wasn’t the only such person, of course, was she? You knew Warren Hull as well, for instance. The man who was killed a few weeks earlier.’

Benny seemed to choose his words with more than usual care. ‘Yes, I knew Warren. People said he was murdered by a kid he picked up but nothing was ever proved. Why do you mention him?’

‘He was Ray Brill’s manager.’

‘What are you getting at? Surely you’re not suggesting Ray murdered him?’

Harry let it pass; the coincidence of Hull’s death bothered him, but he could not explain why, even to himself. Instead he asked why Benny had said nothing until now about Carole’s avowed intention to propose to Clive Doxey. He received a simple answer. The murder had come as a shocking blow, Benny said, and there had never been any reason to believe that her apparent involvement with Clive had any bearing upon it. It was obvious from the start that a sicko must be responsible. By the time the police spoke to him, Edwin Smith was already under arrest and there seemed to be no need to embarrass Doxey or hurt the Jeffries by breaking the dead girl’s confidence. Besides, it was just possible that she had been talking out a fantasy. The next time Doxey came into his studio, Benny had spoken to him about the killing but received no hint that he had regarded her as anything other than the daughter of dear friends. They had both agreed it was a terrible tragedy — and left it at that.

Finally, Benny had given Harry a wry glance and said, ‘So if you’re right and Smith didn’t strangle Carole, who do you think was responsible?’

The question had been put amiably, but Harry had felt sure that Benny was watching closely for his response. He had simply spread his arms and said he wished he knew.

Now, sitting alone in his office, he admitted to himself that he would never be able to prove the identity of the culprit. Jock had pinpointed the problem: there was no chance at this late date of finding evidence to convict that would satisfy a court beyond reasonable doubt. Yet, after all the parents of Edwin Smith and Carole Jeffries had suffered, he told himself, he must make one last effort at least to satisfy himself that Carole’s killer would not go to the grave with his guilt unknown to anyone.

Ernest Miller had talked at their first meeting about the perfect murder. The old man had been shrewd: was it possible that he had managed to identify the culprit — and perhaps had even asked him round to Mole Street last Saturday? Tantalised by the thought, Harry found himself wishing that, if Miller had had to die, he had been killed by his visitor rather than succumbing to the asthma that had dogged him over many years: then at least there might have been a crime for which the murderer could be put away. He had ascertained in casual conversation before Benny left where he had been at the time of Miller’s death. At a video industry conference in Mayfair had been the easy reply. It had lasted until lunchtime on Sunday, Benny claimed. If he thought he was being quizzed for a purpose, he gave no sign of it, but Harry had already decided that Benny Frederick was nobody’s fool. Never mind the openness of his manner: if he had anything to hide, he would hide it well.

Would the same, he wondered, be true of Clive Doxey?

He spent so long mulling over what he had learned that he was almost late for the meeting of the Miscarriages of Justice Organisation. When he finally arrived, Kim Lawrence was chatting to a girl who sat behind the desk at the door of the conference room in Empire Hall. Next to them stood a noticeboard bearing MOJO’s logo of a pair of handcuffs that had been snapped in two and

in huge red letters the legend TONIGHT’S LECTURE — WHY THERE MUST NEVER BE ANOTHER WALTERGATE, BY PATRICK VAULKHARD.

‘He’ll be talking himself out of a job if he’s not careful,’ said Harry.

‘No danger of that in this bloody society,’ said Kim with a wry smile. To his surprise she bent her head forward and brushed his cheek with her lips. ‘Glad you could make it anyway.’

‘Thanks for inviting me,’ he said, as he tried to guess if the kiss meant anything more than a simple social greeting. ‘Sorry I only made it at the eleventh hour.’

‘No problem.’ She gestured towards the rows of empty chairs in front of the vacant speaker’s podium. ‘We need all the support we can get. We’re due to start in a minute and the place is three-quarters empty.’

‘It was a mistake to fix a date that clashed with Everton’s replay.’

‘Are you suggesting soccer fans are connoisseurs of injustice?’

‘Have you never heard them complain about dodgy refereeing decisions?’

She laughed. ‘How did I get into this? I can never tell whether you’re being serious or not.’

‘I promise you,’ he said quietly, ‘I am serious about genuine injustice. Whether it occurred thirty years ago or yesterday.’

‘Any more news about the Sefton Park case?’

He nodded. ‘I’ll tell you later.’

‘I think,’ she said, ‘Edwin Smith would have been glad of you as a champion in 1964. Just as the Walters were lucky to have you — as well as Patrick.’

‘My ears are burning.’ said the barrister’s voice.

‘Hello, Patrick,’ said Kim. ‘Ready to wow them?’

‘I crave only your approval,’ said Vaulkhard, bending to kiss her hand. Harry told himself it was a gesture she endured rather than enjoyed. ‘Lovely to see you, Kim. As well as to find you’ve roped in young Mr Devlin here. Not noticed you at any of these meetings in the past, Harry.’