Martin Edwards - Yesterday's papers

A doctor approached them. His manner was grave and he spoke in a sympathetic murmur. ‘Mrs Walter? My name’s Iqbal. I have just come down from the theatre. Can I speak to you in private for a moment?’

‘What’s the matter? Where’s Kev? What state is he in?’ Jeannie was on the point of seizing him by the lapels of his white coat.

The doctor put a restraining hand on her arm. ‘Mrs Walter, this is a difficult time for you, I realise. Please, let us find a room where we can talk together.’

She turned to Harry. ‘For Christ’s sake, why won’t they tell me anything?’

Seldom had he felt so helpless. Gently, he said, ‘Talk to the doctor, Jeannie, he’ll tell you as much as he knows.’

She bit her lower lip and said, ‘All right. But don’t go, will you? Promise you’ll be here when I get back.’

‘I promise,’ he said, although at that moment he would rather have been anywhere else in the world.

Leaning on Iqbal’s shoulder for support, she tottered down the corridor and out of sight. Harry sat down on a hard black plastic chair and took a last sip from his polystyrene cup of vending machine coffee. The silence was broken only by the occasional trudge of weary night staff and the squeaking trolley wheels that set his teeth on edge. He closed his eyes, not daring to imagine how badly hurt Kevin might be. Come what may, it would be a long time before his next robbery. The stupidity of so many of his clients kept Harry in work, but he cursed Kevin’s greed, all the same. Why were people never satisfied, why did they always want more, why did the rich man take pleasure in dodging a little income tax?

‘Having a rough night?’ asked a voice he recognised.

He glanced up and saw a tall blond-haired man whose hands were sunk deep in the pockets of his raincoat. ‘Hello, Pete, I didn’t expect to see you here. And to answer your question, yes, I have had better evenings.’

Detective Sergeant Peter Olson gave him a grim but not unsympathetic smile. ‘I don’t like to kick a man when he’s down, but you may find things soon get worse.’

‘I doubt it. My client’s seriously injured and likely to go down for years when he finally recovers. His wife’s hysterical and I’m sitting here unable to do anything to offer her consolation. How can things get worse?’

‘You acted for Kevin Walter in his compensation claim, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, and I don’t suppose the people from the old Major Enquiries Squad will be heartbroken by tonight’s events.’

‘Not just tonight’s events, Harry,’ said Olson softly.

‘What else?’

Olson sat down next to him. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this yet awhile, perhaps, but I don’t see that forewarning you will change anything. Fact is, a woman has come forward. Her name is Gaynor and she used to be a prostitute on the Falkner Square beat. She’s accused your client of raping her.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Harry through gritted teeth. ‘When is he supposed to have done that? During his period of wrongful imprisonment?’

Olson smirked like a gameshow host about to reveal the night’s star prize. ‘Five years ago, on the ninth of March to be precise.’

Harry stared at him. ‘Are you kidding? That was…’

A complacent nod. ‘The same date as the robbery of the jeweller in Southport, yes?’

‘It’s impossible!’

‘All too possible, Harry, I can assure you. She tells us he picked her up that night, but didn’t want to pay for what she had to offer. There was a struggle and he finished up beating the shit out of her as well as raping her against an alley wall.’

‘Come on now. This is the first anyone’s heard of it.’

‘She never reported it at the time, of course. Prostitutes often don’t, as you well know. They seem to regard an occasional battering as all part of the job and, rightly or wrongly, they don’t expect to receive much sympathy from us. Besides, she saw in the newspaper that Kevin had been picked up for the Southport job. She knew he was innocent of that, but it seemed to her that he’d got his just deserts.’

‘And is there any evidence to support her story?’

‘Several people can vouch for it. We’ve done our homework, we have to in a case like this. Wouldn’t want to be accused of harassing an innocent man, acting out of spite as a result of his court case, would we? We’ve spoken to other girls who were out that night, including one who can remember seeing Kev pick up her mate. They operate their own mutual security system, jotting down the numbers of punters’ cars, just in case anything nasty might happen. And there’s more.’

Harry groaned. ‘Break it to me gently.’

‘This afternoon we traced the cleric who found her lying a few yards away from the Cathedral and helped wipe the blood and tears away. He’d urged her to report the attack to us, but respected her right to keep silent. Short of serving a subpoena on God, I’d say he’s as close to a perfect witness as I’ll ever meet.’

Olson had an answer for everything. ‘So why has Gaynor suddenly decided to speak up?’ Harry asked heavily.

‘Because of all the fuss on the telly about bloody Waltergate, of course. The sight of Jeannie portraying Kev as the innocent victim got right up Gaynor’s nose. And I suppose she thought the media might be interested in her story too. She’s a reformed character, you know. Married one of her punters who runs an estate agency — from one kind of exploitation to another, eh?’

‘Holy shit.’ Harry shook his head in dismay. ‘No wonder Walter had trouble providing the South Lancs boys with an alibi for the crime he didn’t commit.’

‘Funny the way things turn out, innit?’ said Olson happily.

‘Hilarious.’

‘Don’t look so glum. I’m sure you were well paid for the case you brought against the Squad. And you ought to be rubbing your hands at the prospect of all the extra business. Though even a lad with your imagination may find it hard to persuade the court that Kev took part in the robbery while the balance of his bank account was disturbed.’

‘I suppose I ought to say thanks for tipping me the wink,’ said Harry, ‘but frankly, I preferred blissful ignorance.’

‘Ah well,’ said Peter Olson, ‘you can’t win ’em all. Be seeing you.’

Even before the detective’s revelations had sunk in, Harry heard the click-click-click of Jeannie’s heels coming back down the corridor. He had thought himself proof against any further shocks that night, but the expression on her face caused his stomach to lurch. Never had he seen such naked despair.

He stood up and as he took her hand, another single tear rolled down the ruin of her cheek. ‘Have the police spoken to you?’ he asked.

‘Police, police?’ she answered vaguely. ‘No, I’ve been with the doctor. He’s been explaining the situation to me.’

He felt a sick certainty that he knew what was coming. Yet he had to ask. ‘And — what is the situation?’

‘Kevin’s broken both his neck and his spine. He’ll be lucky to survive the night, but if he does, one thing’s for sure. He’ll never walk again. He’ll be a bloody cripple for the rest of his days. My Kev — confined to a fucking wheelchair!’

Harry tightened his grip on her hand but said nothing. There was nothing to say.

The blotches on her skin darkened and when she spoke again her tone was as hard as an asphalt road. ‘That bloody warehouse, it was criminal what they’d done! The window frames around that skylight were rotten through and through. No wonder Kevin fell. I tell you one thing — we’re going to sue them for every penny they’ve got!’

As dawn approached, he unlocked the door to his flat. His limbs were aching and he felt exhausted, but knew he would never be able to sleep after such a night. Stumbling into the shower, he let the jet of hot water burn his skin and wash fatigue away. He had left Jeannie Walter talking to Iqbal about her husband’s condition: the only sure thing was that it would be some time before he was fit enough to be questioned by the police. Harry had said nothing to Jeannie about Gaynor’s allegations: she had enough on her plate. Phrases from Vaulkhard’s talk about the unending quest for justice kept surfacing in his brain and he wondered grimly whether the tabloid which had serialised the Waltergate story had put a clause in the deal to claim its money back if the truth about Kevin proved to be worse than the fiction dreamed up by the crooked cops of the Major Enquiry Squad.