Martin Edwards: Yesterday's papers

Harry shrugged. ‘I’m not worried about that. But even if we do have the old file, it may cast no light on the case.’

Miller bowed. ‘Of course. But if you do discover any relevant information and feel able to share it with me, you have my address and telephone number. I hope to hear from you. In the meantime, au revoir, Mr Devlin, and thank you for listening.’

Harry watched him walk away in the direction of the taxi rank, a frail old man with a taste for death. He found Miller easy to dislike, but not so easy to ignore. What exactly caused him to doubt Smith’s guilt? It must be more than an old woman’s blind faith in her son’s innocence. Was it a snatch of gossip founded on fancy, or something more substantial, something a court might accept as evidence? Harry felt sure Miller did know more about the case than he was yet prepared to reveal and, almost to his dismay, he found himself itching to learn what it was.

‘Penny for ’em,’ said a voice in his ear.

Turning to face the man who had spoken, Harry said, ‘Whatever makes you believe my thoughts could be published in a family newspaper?’

Ken Cafferty smiled broadly, as he often did. He was chief crime reporter on one of the city’s local papers and his cherubic appearance and amiable manner often induced indiscretions from people who had meant to keep their mouths shut and soon had cause to wish they had done so.

‘I’m always more interested in the bits we leave out of our stories than in those we print. Not so much the stuff that’s libellous, but all the true stories the man in the street simply couldn’t bring himself to believe.’

‘Headlines we never see, like “Low Pay Unit Demands Higher Fees For Lawyers”?’

‘Now I don’t mind a little invention, but I draw the line at outright fantasy. Anyway, I can sniff an exclusive already. I’ve caught Harry Devlin standing outside a pub with no apparent intention of going inside.’

‘I staggered to the exit after I ran out of oxygen.’

‘I’d have thought after a few pints you wouldn’t bother about that kind of thing. Personally, I don’t mind the Wallace. I like anywhere so cramped that there’s no alternative but to eavesdrop. Anyway, what were you up to, celebrating the Kevin Walter verdict in advance?’

Harry shook his head. ‘I’m not counting my chickens. No, someone’s been bending my ear about a trial that dates back to the sixties.’

‘Don’t tell me they’ve finally decided to appeal?’

‘It’s an old murder case, dead and buried in more ways than one. There’s a suggestion that the wrong man may have been found guilty.’

‘I sometimes wonder how any crimes are ever committed, given the number of innocents around who are unlucky enough to keep being convicted. But let that pass. A miscarriage story always sells papers. Who did the system stitch up this time?’

Harry wondered how much he should tell the journalist. He could see no harm in selective disclosure. Miller had not sworn him to secrecy and Ken might have ideas of his own about the case. His encyclopaedic knowledge of Liverpudlian crime was all the more impressive in view of the sheer volume of the subject matter. He claimed his years in the job had brought him face to face with more villains than Her Majesty’s Inspector of Prisons ever saw.

‘A young girl called Carole Jeffries was killed.’

‘The Sefton Park Strangling,’ said Ken promptly.

‘Ten out of ten. You know the case?’

‘Before my time, of course, but I’ve heard about it. Every now and then we dig something up from the archives to fill a few paragraphs on a slack day. If there’s a mugger roaming round that part of the city, say, or we’re doing a feature on famous Liverpool murders. Lazy journalism, admittedly.’ He winked and added, ‘I do it a lot.’

‘Any chance I might have a look at the material you have?’

Ken clicked his tongue. ‘Strictly classified, you should realise that. More than my job’s worth, and all that.’

‘You mean it will cost me?’

‘With such a cynical mind, you should have become a reporter. As a matter of fact, I’m starving. I’ve spent the day on the trail of a crooked builder at a property developers’ conference. It would have been easier to hunt for a particular twig in Delamere Forest. Buy me a meal and I may force myself to overcome my professional scruples. I should say this kind of information must be worth a table for two at the Ensenada.’

‘I had a burger and chips in mind.’

‘My old dad used to work for The Sun, and he taught me everything I ever learned about media ethics,’ said Ken sadly. ‘He must be spinning in his grave at the thought of my selling my soul — for less than the price of a Chateaubriand with champagne, that is. He knew his worth and we always lived well on it. But the traditional values are dead, I suppose. I’ll settle for the junk food, you old skinflint.’

As they headed towards the city centre, Harry asked, ‘Ever heard of any doubt that the right man was caught in the Sefton Park case?’

‘Never. Wasn’t there a guilty plea? As I recall, there was no mystery. All the excitement lay in the fact that a gorgeous young girl had died and her father was famous. The main thrust of the coverage was that the bastard who killed the little girl should have swung for it.’

‘A distinct absence of liberal hand-wringing about whether all the niceties of procedure had been observed in persuading him to cough?’

‘We’re talking about the days when people thought Dixon Of Dock Green was a documentary. Are you suggesting — perish the thought — that the police beat a false confession out of whatshisname?’

‘Edwin Smith. No, at this stage I simply don’t know.’

‘So what’s your interest?’

‘Smith died in jail, but one or two questions have been raised about whether the verdict was right.’

‘Who’s been bending your ear?’

‘Sorry,’ said Harry with relish. ‘I’m not able to name my sources. You of all people will understand that.’

The orange neon of the welcome sign above the burger bar made a vivid splash in the evening darkness. The place was packed with people queuing for service from youngsters wearing paper kepis and badges emblazoned with smiley faces. The air was thick with the smell of fat and the sound of catarrhal Scouse voices chanting carefully rehearsed phrases like ‘Hi, how may I help you?’, ‘Two triple whammies with fries!’ and ‘Have a nice night!’.

Harry bought the food and drink, then slid a hot polystyrene package across the formica surface of the table Ken had chosen. ‘Thicken your arteries with that.’

Ken poured brown sauce over his burger with as much delicacy as if he were coating strawberries with cream. ‘So what information are you looking for?’

‘I’m keen to know more about the people in the case. I hadn’t realised how many of Merseyside’s great and good were involved, although I was vaguely aware that Guy Jeffries was a big name at the time.’

‘We headed his obituary “Socialism’s Nearly Man”, as I recall, though I can think of scores of contenders for that particular epitaph. He topped himself the day Margaret Thatcher came into power, you know.’

One or two jokes rose to the tip of Harry’s tongue, but he resisted temptation. ‘How did he do it?’

‘Overdose of sleeping pills. By all accounts, he’d followed the Iron Lady’s career in opposition with mounting alarm and I suppose he realised that once the Tories regained power, they wouldn’t let anyone prise it out of their claws in a hurry. Needless to say, with all the political excitement, his passing barely made the stop press. Of course, by then his time had gone. He was sitting on the sidelines of public life.’