and strolled inside.
A girl at the door handed him a leaflet which told him a little about Benny’s career. He had inherited his father’s studio as a young man in 1961 and had proved to be in the right business in the right place at the right time. His candid camera had caught pop singers, poets and comedians and made him as much of a star as most of them: what Patrick Lichfield was to high society and David Bailey to the world of fashion, Benny Frederick had been to the age of the Mersey Sound. As the city’s golden decade had drawn to a close, he had recognised the need to move with the times and his nose for commerce had prompted him to diversify into video, but it was for his photography that most people knew him best. With justice, Harry thought: despite the self-deprecation of the exhibition’s title, he could see that the photographs were the work of a talented artist. Benny could capture a personality in a single shot, whether it was Ringo Starr cavorting on Blackpool Beach, Ken Dodd clowning at the Empire or Bessie Braddock haranguing a heckler at an election meeting. Brian Epstein was pictured standing offstage at the Cavern, watching with rapt attention as a young John Lennon sang ‘Baby, It’s You’, but Harry was more intrigued by a photograph of a nightclub pianist. His hair was plastered with lotion and his lips curled as if he held his piano in contempt. The caption said simply WARREN HULL AT THE PEPPERMINT LOUNGE — 1961. So this was the Brill Brothers’ guru, yet another man who would later die violently and long before his time. But of Ray and Ian Brill themselves there was no sign.
For a minute or two, Harry flirted aimlessly with the girl on the door, but then her boyfriend arrived and it was time to move on. He had decided to watch the soccer at Anfield in the afternoon, but even after a liquid lunch at the Dock Brief, he still had time to drift into the second-hand bookshop in Williamson Lane. Normally he haunted the fiction room, thumbing through shabby copies of long-forgotten mysteries by the likes of Anthony Berkeley and John Dickson Carr. He relished the sorcery of the old books, with their bodies discovered in rooms that had every door and window locked and barred and their murders in Turkish baths committed by daggers made of ice. The Golden Age of crime fiction seemed to him to be a time of innocence and charm: between the wars, artifice was everything and only authors, not policemen, indulged themselves in creating elaborate fictions.
For once, though, he concentrated on the true crime shelves, keen to see if anyone had ever written up the strangling in Sefton Park. There were endless accounts of the cases of Charles Bravo and Constance Kent, while Florence Maybrick and James Wallace had a whole row to themselves — but he could find nothing on the killing of Carole. Her death had caused a sensation in its day, but it held no interest for the murder buff: there was no suspense in a case that everyone regarded as open and shut.
What if Miller could establish with Renata Grierson’s evidence — whatever it might be — that Carole Jeffries had not died at the hands of Edwin Smith? Would the public interest be stirred and would the men who had known her, the likes not only of Ray Brill, but also Benny Frederick and Clive Doxey, at last come under the microscope? Might long-forgotten motives suddenly emerge?
The thought fascinated him as he made his way upstairs. Perhaps he should do a little background reading. The first floor of the shop was dusty and quiet and he suspected most of the stock stayed on the shelves from one year to the next. Never before had he bothered to search out books about politics or the social sciences — they were subjects he would ordinarily travel a distance to avoid — and it took him a while to find his way around. But in the end he came up with a fat hardback and a dog-eared Penguin that made his visit worthwhile. Our Sterile Society by Guy Jeffries and Radicalism And The Law, a collection of articles by Sir Clive Doxey. A little light reading for after the match.
At home that evening, Harry listened to Dionne Warwick asking the way to San Jose while he studied his purchases. Guy Jeffries’ face appeared on the back of his book’s dustwrapper. He was giving the camera a youthful grin: the photograph must surely have been taken in the early fifties, years before first publication. Harry had little experience of the literary world, but he had noticed before that in real life authors always seemed far older than their publicity pictures made them appear. The biographical notes were more up-to-date, recording the glittering prizes Guy Jeffries had earned so rapidly during his academic career and including an encomium from a future Prime Minister.
There is no more fluent exponent of the integral link between politics and philosophy in Britain today than Guy Jeffries, Harold Wilson had proclaimed, and although it was hardly an epitaph that would have encouraged Harry to glance inside the book in normal circumstances, now he opened it at once.
Even before he reached chapter one, he was struck by the dedication which came immediately after the title page. To Carole, whom I adore. Both Harry’s parents had been killed in a road accident when he was a boy but somehow he had never doubted that his own old man, taciturn and undemonstrative though he had been, would have done anything to spare his son from pain. Again he tried to guess at the grief Jeffries had felt at the death of his daughter. To lose one’s mother and father when young was a cruel blow, but to lose an only child must be a hundred times worse.
Guy’s writing was fluent and — even in a chapter on the unpromising subject of British industrial policy — passionate. There was no denying the strength of his convictions or the verve with which he propounded them. The strangler, Harry reflected, had not only robbed Carole of life but also her father of the will to continue his march down the path to fame and fortune.
Late in the evening, Harry turned to Clive Doxey’s book. It had been written during his socialist phase and the biographical note at the front did not reflect the author’s subsequent political metamorphoses although the elegant style of the main text was familiar to Harry from Doxey’s more recent journalism. A forceful essay on Punishment made it clear that he belonged to the school of penal reform that believes in fining householders careless enough to allow themselves to be burgled and concentrating the resources thereby acquired on the rehabilitation of those driven by deprivation to commit the burglaries. What, Harry wondered, of the person who had committed the murder in Sefton Park? If neither Smith nor some other inadequate was guilty, he came back to the possibility that the culprit was someone who had known Carole well. Someone who had been able to cast his crime aside and carry on living in civilised society without apparent strain or shame.
Unless, thought Harry as his eyelids began to droop, that someone was Ray Brill and the decline of his career was due to something more significant than his failure to come to terms with the changing world of pop.
When he woke the next morning, he was still haunted by the same idea. Now he could pinpoint Miller’s change of attitude towards the Cyril Tweats file. Even after speaking to Renata Grierson, he had been curious about its contents at the time of his telephone call on Thursday. But that same afternoon he had been anxious to choke off any interest Harry might have in the case. Could it be that Ray, taken off balance by Miller’s news that Smith seemed to be in the clear, might have said something that amounted to an admission of his own guilt?
Yet the more Harry debated with himself, the more fanciful his guesswork seemed. Hadn’t Sherlock once said that it was a capital mistake to theorise without data? What he needed was hard facts and Miller’s determination to play his cards close to his chest simply had the effect of making him more eager than ever to find things out for himself. Yet where should he start?
Best to begin close to home, he concluded. At least he knew the man who had been at the heart of things thirty years ago. The time had come to pay a call on Cyril Tweats.
It was not a decision he took lightly. He had always found Cyril an infuriating companion and had reacted with horror to Jim’s suggestion, when the practice of Tweats and Company came on the market, that they should put in a bid.
‘Are you serious?’ he had demanded. ‘We’ll be the laughing stock of Liverpool.’
‘Laughing all the way to the bank, if the figures I’ve seen stack up,’ his partner had replied. ‘Cyril’s comfortably off and he’s not seeking much money for the goodwill.’
‘Goodwill? Most of his files are marked with the black spot.’
‘You exaggerate, as usual. Say what you like about Cyril — and you usually do — he has plenty of profitable work-in-progress in his cabinets. Besides, his overheads are minimal.’
‘Of course they are. He pays his staff peanuts and never moves a muscle on any of his files unless someone forces his hand. What about the risk of negligence claims?’
‘Warranties and insurance,’ said Jim with a wave of the hand. ‘Believe me, we can afford a bank loan to pay him what he’s looking for and wait for the money to roll in.’
‘If it’s such a good deal, why aren’t our competitors biting his hand off?’
‘Same reason you’re so nervous. Cyril has a wonderful reputation with his clients, quite the opposite with other solicitors. Besides, most firms are trying to move upmarket. They’re aiming for the corporate business, that’s where the money is supposed to be. I tell you, though, Harry, I’ve examined Cyril’s accounts as sceptically as if they
