Martin Edwards: Yesterday's papers

‘I gather he lost his way after the death of his daughter. Not like his pal, Clive Doxey.’

‘Oh yes, Sir Clive’s done well for himself. Trust a lawyer. Do you know him?’

‘Hardly. We move in different circles.’

‘You mean you act for the criminal classes, he simply talks about them?’

Harry grinned. Although Clive Doxey had qualified as a barrister many years ago, he had never practised, preferring a career in academe. In his early days as an angry young don, he had courted controversy by railing in lectures and in print against the cosy assumptions of the legal establishment. His ceaseless campaigning for justice for all had made him a household name and earned him a knighthood when his friend Harold Wilson left Downing Street for the last time. Nowadays, he had a weekly column in The Guardian and was married to a blonde less than half his age whose main claim to fame was a spell as a TV weather girl. Inevitably, his success had encouraged sniping and his detractors claimed that, amongst political turncoats, he made the Vicar of Bray look like a model of constancy. Commie Clive, the romantically hotheaded student from the London School of Economics, had matured into a man faithful for twenty years to the Labour Party before flirting with social democracy in the eighties and ultimately finishing up in bed with the Liberals. But he took all the criticism in his stride and continued to fight for what he believed in. Nowadays, no national debate — whether over the wearing of wigs in court or the need to tackle the causes of crime — was complete without a soundbite from Sir Clive.

‘Did you know he called at the Jeffries’ house on the day young Carole died?’

‘No?’ Ken’s eyebrows rose. ‘I must say, he’s managed to keep that quiet over the years.’

‘I might,’ said Harry on impulse, ‘like to talk to him about his memories of the case. See if he thinks Smith was innocent.’

‘Why not? He seems to reckon most convicted killers are. A miscarriage story would be right up his street.’

‘Maybe I’ll get in touch with him. Not that he is the only well-known character connected with the case. Benny Frederick is another. Carole worked for him and she was a good-looking young girl, after all. He’s bound to have taken an interest in her.’

‘Don’t let your imagination roam too far. One thing’s for sure, if anyone would have been immune to the charms of a Liverpudlian Lolita, Benny’s the man. Now if you’d been talking about a pretty schoolboy, things would have been different.’

‘I didn’t know Benny Frederick was gay.’

‘For God’s sake, I thought you fancied yourself as a detective, a student of your fellow human beings. Benny’s preferences are common knowledge. Mind, he’s a decent enough chap. I had a few words with him only the other day at the Bluecoat Gallery. They’re exhibiting photographs he took in the sixties.’

‘You think he’d be happy to talk to me?’

Benny Frederick had been among the first to see the marketing potential of the pop promotion video and later he had turned his hand to producing business tapes intended to aid the development of management skills. Harry’s partner, Jim Crusoe, had even talked about investing in Frederick’s best-selling Guide to Client Care and Public Relations. Hitherto, Harry had resisted the idea but now, he thought, the time might have come to climb aboard the PR bandwagon.

‘I’m sure he wouldn’t mind giving you a bit of back-ground.’

‘What about Ray Brill?’

Chewing hard, Ken said in a muffled tone, ‘The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.’

‘He was Carole’s boyfriend. Surely you remember the Brill Brothers?’

‘Oh, the pop group?’

‘Just a duo — and I don’t think they were brothers in real life.’

Ken’s brow furrowed. ‘Weren’t they mixed up with some other murder case?’

‘No idea.’

Ken thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘It’s gone. I’ll let you know when the story comes back to me. But I can’t say I remember much about them — or any of their songs. Truth is, I’m tone deaf. Can’t tell the difference between Beethoven and Bruce Springsteen. They both sound the same to me and it’s not a sound I care for. As far as I’m concerned, the written word’s the thing. The pen is mightier than the skiffle board.’ He laid down his plastic knife and fork. ‘So those are the dramatis personae?’

‘The ones I know about. A mixed bag, don’t you think?’

‘I’ll be interested to hear how they react to your view that the police’s neat solution to the Sefton Park case may not have been correct.’

‘It’s not my view. But I don’t believe in neat solutions.’

‘You’re simply embarrassed by your repeated failures with our quick crossword.’ Ken wiped his mouth on a paper napkin bearing the ubiquitous smiley face. ‘That filled a corner. Give my compliments to the chef, even though he did go a little too easy on the gherkin.’

‘So when can I expect you to delve into your files for a little more info?’

‘I told you, it’s strictly against company rules.’

‘You’ll enjoy the frisson.’

‘Stop talking dirty. Look, I’ll see what I can do — on the understanding that if there’s a story in it at the end of the day, you’ll make sure I’m the first to know.’ He paused, then said, ‘Preferably a true story.’

‘You never used to be so fussy. Listen, I’ll have a pint of best waiting for you in the Dock Brief tomorrow night. Six sharp?’

‘I’ll be there.’ Ken flipped the empty burger carton into a wastepaper basket which again bore a smiley face. ‘And thanks for your lavish hospitality.’

Harry set off home, the city was quiet, with the pubs full and the clubs yet to open. His route took him down Mathew Street, once the site of the old Victorian fruit warehouse which later became a club known as the Cavern. The Brill Brothers would certainly have played there. He was too young to remember what it had been like in Liverpool during the sixties, but people still talked about those golden days when the Beatles were on three times a week and a hat-check girl could change her name from Priscilla White to Cilla Black and suddenly find herself at number one in the charts. It had been a time of endless possibilities, when the world watched what went on in a dirty old port and when everyone believed that fame and fortune were waiting around the next corner.

The Cavern had been bulldozed when Harry was still a boy, but he had heard enough about it for images of the place to be etched in his mind. The stink of oranges and cabbage in the street outside, the sweaty atmosphere within as a crush of kids clutching precious membership cards swayed to the rhythms of the Mersey Sound. Now those of Merseybeat’s pioneers who were left mostly propped up city centre bars, reminiscing about what might have been. John Lennon would never have dreamed he had so many bosom buddies or recognised the tat flogged as Beatles memorabilia by sixties survivors with an eye for a fast buck and a gullible punter.

Pausing beneath the wall sculpture which celebrated the Four Lads Who Shook The World, Harry wondered what Ray Brill was doing these days. Had he, like Guy Jeffries, had his life ruined by his girlfriend’s savage murder? Was it somehow to blame for his own descent into obscurity? After Carole’s death the Brill Brothers had split up and Ray’s subsequent attempt at a solo career had failed to set the Mersey on fire. Harry could recall seeing his name halfway down the bill of a social club concert two or three years ago. A miserable comedown for a man who had once scaled the charts with a steeplejack’s aplomb.

A tune came into his head and he started humming, trying to remember the words. Of course! It was ‘Blue On Blue’, the ballad with which the Brill Brothers had scored their last chart entry. Must have been around the time of the Sefton Park Strangling, Harry thought. The melody lingered as he walked towards his flat on the bank of the Mersey and when he arrived home he started searching through his record collection, sure that he had a copy of the song somewhere.