were careful not to let him learn of it. He had sued for libel three times and slander twice in the past two decades and defamation damages had helped keep him in the style to which he had become accustomed. Meanwhile, his clients mostly survived to mug or steal another day and amongst the criminal fraternity it was a status symbol to boast that Reuben Fingall was your brief.
Ruby directed Harry towards a door at the rear of the building, unlocking it and clambering up the steep stairs two at a time. “This way,” he said breathlessly, “we avoid the hoi-polloi in reception, whining for their compensation and fretting over their latest summons.”
His office was on the third floor. Panelled in mahogany, it was sixteen feet square. Hockney prints hung on the walls and heavy blue velvet curtains lined the windows. Taking a seat behind a huge desk on which stood a notice saying SILENCE! LE PATRON TRAVAILLE! Ruby waved Harry into a leather-upholstered chair, picked up the telephone and said, “A pot of Earl Grey for Mr. Devlin and myself, Veronica.”
Harry said, “You wanted to speak to me about Coghlan.”
“Michael, ah, yes.” The beam faded. “It does seem, Harold, that you have been making a nuisance of yourself so far as my client is concerned. Calling at his home, his place of business, even interrupting him during a snatched hour of recreation at the West Liverpool this morning, I gather.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not trying to poach one of your clients.”
“I can assure you there’s no danger of that. You appear not to appreciate, however, that Michael is not some sort of street hoodlum. He’s a respected member of the local business community and your behaviour — I might almost say, your harassment of him — is naturally a source of considerable distress.”
Harry pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. “My heart bleeds.”
Ruby gazed sadly at one of the Hockneys. With the heavy patience of a schoolmarm urging a recalcitrant pupil to mend his ways, he said: “Michael is not a man to trifle with.”
“I’m not trifling.”
“You’ve antagonised him, Harold, and that isn’t wise.”
A matronly woman brought in the tea on a tray. Fingall thanked her lavishly and said, “Shall I be mother?” Without waiting for a reply, he started to fill the delicate china cups and, when the secretary had closed the door again, he asked, “Can I take it, then, that you won’t be troubling my client again?”
“Surely you know me better than to imagine I can be warned off. Not like you to be naive, Ruby.”
Few people used the nick-name to Fingall’s face nowadays. His plump cheeks coloured and he said, “Don’t trespass on my goodwill, young man, or my client’s.” The careful elocution began to slip, the vowel sounds shortening with his temper. “You know about his background. Enough said on that score, I think. I’ve put in a word for you, explained that you’ve had a rough ride. But don’t push him any further.”
“Thanks for your kind support, but I can take care of myself.”
Fingall banged his cup down upon the desk, splashing a few drops of tea onto the polished surface. “You ought to snap out of this, Harold. Your wife’s dead and nothing you can do will bring her back again.”
“You think I’ve overlooked that? But I told Coghlan that I’d find the man who murdered Liz and nothing you can say is going to make me change my mind.”
Ruby contemplated Harry’s fixed expression for a full minute. When he spoke again, he had regained his composure, although there was a hard edge to his reproving tone. “You’re no detective, Harold, don’t let one or two past successes in that respect deceive you. You mustn’t let this tragedy take hold of you. The way I hear it, you’re behaving like a man obsessed. Take care not to interfere in things that are no concern of yours.”
“Liz’s death is my concern.”
“Michael Coghlan had nothing to do with it.”
“Where was he last Thursday night? Not down in Leeming Street, by any chance?”
Triumphant as a politician scoring a point in debate, Fingall said, “My client wasn’t even within one hundred miles of Merseyside.”
“So the alibi is standing up to scrutiny at present?” Harry rubbed his chin. “How much did it cost him?”
The older man puffed like a steam train. “That will do. I make allowances for you, Harold, you’ve suffered a grievous loss. But your credit’s running out fast, young man. I won’t have you hurling these slanderous accusations at a client of mine.”
“Coghlan killed my wife. Everything points that way.”
“You’re an experienced lawyer,” Ruby brayed. “Yet a novice would have more sense than to jump to ridiculous conclusions like that. Assumptions piled on top of prejudice. Why don’t you act your age?”
Harry raised his eyebrows and after a moment Fingall said more gently, “There’s no proof of Michael’s guilt for the very good reason that he did not murder your wife. He hasn’t been charged in connection with the crime precisely because he did not commit it.”
Standing up, Harry said, “See you in court.”
Fingall wagged a well-manicured finger. “Harold, I’ve given you fair warning. If you persist with this absurd vendetta because Michael Coghlan once hurt your pride — I won’t answer for the consequences.”
“Thanks for the tea, Ruby.” And Harry walked out, leaving his host staring angrily after him.
He took the stairs to ground level two at a time. This latest attempt to dissuade him from pursuing his quest for Coghlan’s skin had achieved nothing but the hardening of his resolve. Harry could accept that, for what it was worth, Ruby Fingall might not believe that his client had stabbed Liz. Harry had, when accusing Coghlan, sensed — whether from professional experience or superstitious instinct, he was not sure — that there was something about the case which he did not himself yet understand, some missing link without which guilt could never be proved. But it was plain that Fingall was acting under instructions, presumably phoned through from the West Liverpool, to pressurise Harry into abandoning his campaign. And Harry’s reaction to pressure was always to resist it.
Arriving back at the office, he looked in on Jim Crusoe, who was poring over a bundle of title deeds, sheaves of heavy parchment scripted in copperplate and yellow with age. The craggy face glanced up and eased into a smile. “Rights of way, I hate them! Wish I did litigation, the easy life. Lucy tells me you were out in the Magistrates’ this afternoon. Successful?”
Harry shrugged. “The boy got off through lack of evidence. Whether that counts as a success, I’m not sure.”
“Course it does.”
“You reckon?” Harry perched on the edge of a desk half the size of Ruby’s. This room was no bigger than his own, though it was more orderly, with its neat piles of pre-contract enquiry and land registration forms and window sill array of law reports bound in blue buckram. Pensively, he said, “Ever think much about justice, Jim?”
“How do you mean?” Jim was too instinctive a lawyer to respond directly to a question as wide as that, even in casual conversation.
“Everyone knows my client was responsible for the crash with the motorcyclist. It was a miracle that no one was killed. Yet he walks out of the court without a care in the world. Is that just?”
“Keep talking like that and you’ll only be fit for prosecutions.”
“You disagree?”
Crusoe pushed the folded deeds to one side, using as a paperweight a mug bearing the legend Old Lawyers Never Die — They Just Lose Their Appeal. “Life isn’t so simple. You’re not paid to act as judge and jury. It’s the oldest rule in the solicitor’s book. You weren’t a witness to your client’s supposed crime. He denies responsibility. You’re hired to defend the lad and the Crown’s case falls apart. That’s justice, even if it does stick in your gullet. Nothing to trouble your conscience there.”
“Although the crime goes unpunished?”
“Face it, most crimes do.”
“And you’re satisfied with that?”
“No, but I’m not here to change the world. Besides, what did Blackstone say: ‘Better that ten guilty men go free rather than one innocent suffer’? That’s the system we have, pal, like it or not.”
Harry slammed his fist down on the desk top, scattering a wad of telephone notes. “I always agreed with that old idea, but now I’m not so sure. How can you allow a man who has killed in cold blood to go free?”
Jim Crusoe gathered the bits of paper together and said, “So we’re discussing Liz? Thought as much. Let me give it to you straight — stay out of this thing, Harry, you’re too close to it. You’re sure Coghlan murdered her. I don’t know… you may be right, or totally wrong. In either case, leave it to Skinner. I’ve asked around, Harry, he’s good. He’ll nail the bastard if he can.”
