leads to another. As it did with young Smith. One day, he simply went too far.’
‘He had had a girlfriend of his own, though.’
‘Yes, I believe there was someone, but that only made things worse. He admitted she’d finished with him around the time he strangled the girl, if memory serves. Obviously, the rejection tipped him over the edge.’
‘Name of Renata Yates, according to his statement. Did you ever see her?’
‘Lord, no. She’d made herself scarce and besides, I could tell she was going to be bad news. I mean, from the little he said about her she was no better than a street-walker.’
‘So you never heard any suggestions that her evidence might have exonerated Edwin?’
‘Good gracious me, certainly not. Wherever did you get such an idea?’
‘From the same person who tells me that Edwin was an attention-seeker, the sort who might admit guilt simply to claim his fifteen minutes of fame.’
‘Look, Harry,’ said Cyril in his most fatherly manner, ‘don’t you believe all that you hear in those saloon bars of yours.’
‘Okay, okay, so tell me about the victim, Carole. What was she like?’
‘Pretty girl. Headstrong, by all accounts, possibly rather spoiled. Her mum was a bit of a tartar, I remember, but Carole was the apple of her father’s eye, he thought she could do no wrong. Her death finished him, you know. He’d been a powerful figure in the Labour movement, but after his daughter’s death, he was never the same man again. Of course, you might say that’s the inevitable fate of people who devote themselves to the Labour movement. Even so, I often thought that he was Edwin Smith’s second victim.’
‘Although he survived Edwin by — what? — nearly fifteen years?’
‘Yes, killed himself on the day Margaret Thatcher came to power, would you believe? Ludicrous, absolutely ludicrous. You don’t need me to tell you she was the finest Prime Minister this country ever had. And how did her own party reward her?’
Keener even than usual to avoid a discussion about the Iron Lady, Harry said hastily, ‘Smith cut his throat in prison. It was careless of the authorities to let him have the opportunity. Wasn’t he marked down as a suicide risk?’
‘You know how these things occur,’ said Cyril in his man-to-man tone. ‘I’m afraid my client was an unpopular fellow. I suspect a warder turned a blind eye to the possibility of felo de se. It happens, as you know.’
Looking at the amiable, contented face, Harry marvelled. Cyril was a man who had always been at ease with himself, no matter what disasters befell those for whom he had acted.
‘What about the people close to the Jeffries family? Clive Doxey was one of them, wasn’t he?’
‘Ah yes,’ said Cyril with a chuckle, ‘he experienced quite a crisis of conscience, as I recall. He’d been an outspoken advocate of abolishing capital punishment, but when his best friend’s daughter was murdered, he seemed to have second thoughts for a while. I remember it well.’
‘I suppose there was never any suggestion that the police should have cast their net more widely in searching for suspects?’
‘Lord, no. Everyone regarded it as an open-and-shut case.’
‘Carole’s boyfriend, the pop musician — was he ever a suspect?’
Cyril smiled a superior smile. ‘Ah, Harry, you never change, do you? Constantly seeking a complex explanation where a perfectly simple one exists all the time. I’m surprised you have time for all this nonsense, with such a busy practice to attend to. When I was your age…’
‘The musician,’ prompted Harry.
‘Oh yes, I remember the chap you’re referring to, though I forget his name, but I’m quite certain he had an alibi for the killing. As you will appreciate, it was one of the first things the police had to check.’
‘And the strength of the alibi?’
A dismissive shrug. ‘I don’t believe there was ever the slightest indication that he might have committed the crime.’
Succumbing to frustration, Harry said, ‘All right, Carole worked for Benny Frederick, didn’t she? Did anyone consider whether he might have had a motive for killing her?’
‘My dear fellow, I don’t think I’m talking out of turn when I say that Frederick was well known for being rather more interested in young men than young girls.’
Harry decided to fly a kite. ‘Homosexuality was illegal in 1964. She might have been blackmailing him.’
Distaste spread across Cyril’s placid features like a stain. ‘A lurid suggestion, Harry, and frankly a slanderous one. I do urge you to think carefully before you make some of your more outrageous statements. Yes, I really do advise that you look before you leap.’
Harry felt it was a sound principle to do the opposite of whatever Cyril advised, but he simply nodded and said, ‘Would you like to look at your old file? It may trigger one or two memories.’
Cyril picked up the folder and started to glance through it. Every now and then he gave a small grunt of pleasurable reminiscence, rather like a minor celebrity leafing through an old album of press cuttings.
‘A well-organised file, though I say so myself. Quite immaculately presented. Say what you like about her, Mrs Miller was certainly a good secretary.’
The name struck Harry like a slap across the cheek.
‘Mrs Miller?’
‘Yes, yes. Marlene was her first name, although we were never on such familiar terms. Let me see, she must have worked for me for the best part of twenty years. An immaculate typist, precise and well organised, the best I ever had.’
‘She wasn’t by any chance married to a man called Ernest?’
Cyril tutted. ‘My dear fellow, I can hardly be expected to recall the Christian name of the spouse of an employee who worked for me donkey’s years ago. And yet, as it happens, you may just be right. The two of them were Germans, of course, though I did not hold that against them. Now I come to think of it, I believe he changed his name from Mueller.’ Cyril beamed at his feat of memory. ‘Yes, I’m sure that was his name. Ernst Mueller, who became Ernest Miller. Is that the chap you’re asking about?’
Chapter Eleven
Harry stared at Cyril Tweats. ‘So Marlene Miller was your confidential secretary and did all the typing on the Smith file? Tell me, how long did she work for you afterwards?’
Cyril was genial in his condescension. ‘You are flitting about today. One minute you’re immersed in a case that closed thirty years ago, the next you’re getting excited about my typing arrangements. Really, Harry, is it possible you may be suffering from over-tiredness?’
‘Please, Cyril, I’m interested.’
Cyril beamed again to show that he was willing to humour him. ‘I should say she stayed with me until about twelve years ago. Then another firm offered more money. I sensed she was reluctant to go, kept hoping I would increase my offer. But I have my principles.’
Glancing at the sumptuous furnishings all around, Harry had to admit that Cyril’s principles had kept him in a style to which many would be glad to become accustomed.
‘Did you know Marlene had died?’
Cyril rubbed his chin. ‘I believe I did hear that. I think her husband let one of the girls in the office know.’
‘You never met him?’
‘I always made it a rule never to fraternise with my staff or their families,’ said Cyril sternly. ‘I regard it as a basic tenet of good management. One must keep one’s distance. Otherwise standards start to slip. Another jaffa cake?’
‘Did she ever speak of him?’
‘Possibly. I never knew a woman yet who didn’t indulge her taste in gossip — and usually at the most
