‘I think I’m getting bitten by the detective bug as well,’ said Kim. ‘What’s your next move?’
‘First things first,’ said Harry. ‘I still have no proof of Edwin Smith’s innocence. I need to trace Renata Grierson and find out exactly why she told Miller that her boyfriend was no murderer.’
Chapter Fourteen
An hour later he was sitting at a corner table in the Ensenada opposite Jim Crusoe, who was raising a glass of Moet and wishing that every week brought a new Waltergate.
‘Here’s to justice,’ said Jim. ‘Long may it miscarry.’
‘As long as the fees are good?’ asked Harry mischievously.
‘A man’s got to eat,’ said his partner, eyeing his steak with enthusiasm. ‘Besides, I know our social conscience is safe in your care. I suppose this Sefton Park case is going to be another of your pro bono publico enquiries, is it?’
On the way to the restaurant, Harry had regaled him with an account of his conversations with Miller and what he knew of the Carole Jeffries case. ‘I’m thinking as much of Edwin Smith’s mum as of my own curiosity. She paid Cyril handsomely for poor reward. If her son now turns out to have been innocent all along, he deserves to have his name cleared.’
‘Are you thinking of a posthumous pardon?’
Harry spread his arms, and almost sent a passing waiter flying. ‘Why not? The poor idiot has spent thirty years being considered guilty of a crime he may not have committed — assuming that this Renata woman wasn’t pulling the wool over Miller’s eyes when she assured him Edwin couldn’t have been guilty. I wish I knew how to get in touch with her. Perhaps the best idea is to follow Miller’s example and advertise.’
‘That won’t be necessary.’
‘Do you have a better suggestion?’
‘As a matter of fact, I do.’ Jim reached down for the briefcase he had brought along from the office. ‘If only you’d let me get a word in edgeways earlier, I might have put you out of your misery. Look at this.’
He took out the red file Miller had handed Harry about his personal affairs and drew from it a single sheet of paper. ‘I take it you didn’t study the documents our client passed to you?’
‘I glanced at the summary, but I didn’t trouble with the rest of the paperwork. It’s more your line of country than mine.’
‘Not necessarily.’ Jim passed him the sheet. ‘When I was working on the will, I couldn’t make head nor tail of this stuff. None of it had any bearing on Miller’s instructions about his estate. But I think you may find it useful.’
‘Too right,’ breathed Harry as he stared at the sheet. It was headed CONTACTS and contained a list of names, telephone numbers and addresses in Miller’s immaculate script. They were names that had begun to mean a good deal to him: Vera Smith, Kathleen Jeffries, Ray Brill, Clive Doxey, Benny Frederick, Shirley Titchard, Vincent Deysbrook — and Renata Grierson.
‘I don’t know how it got mixed up with the financial papers,’ said Jim between mouthfuls of steak, ‘unless Miller meant to pass it to you surreptitiously.’
‘Nothing so melodramatic. I remember now, he dropped his files when we met in Sefton Park and several sheets spilled out. He must have put this one back in the wrong file.’ He grinned and took another sip of champagne. ‘Wonderful! Maybe I’m now a step ahead of the character who nicked the rest of Miller’s papers on the case.’
‘Watch your step. If you’re right in thinking he killed Carole Jeffries — and maybe Miller for good measure — he won’t take kindly to your sticking your nose in.’
‘No need for you to worry. Don’t forget our cross-insurance.’
Jim wiped his mouth on the back of his napkin. ‘I live in fear that the small print may exclude death in the course of detective work.’
‘Anyway, I’m far from certain that he did murder Miller. I need to find out what the post mortem revealed.’
‘I’ll ask for you if you like. I’m ringing that policewoman who came round to the burglary — whatshername, Lynn — to find out if they have any leads, so I can progress our claim. I could ask her if she can find out.’
‘Thanks, but there’s no need. I’ll speak to the constable I met at Everton. He ought to be willing to talk to me. I was the late Ernest Miller’s legal representative, remember.’
As soon as he got back to the office he called the number Miller had listed for Renata Grierson. The phone was answered on the second ring. ‘Is that Mrs Grierson?’
‘Who wants her?’ asked a woman’s voice at the other end of the telephone line. The accent was broad Scouse, the tone provocative.
‘This is Harry Devlin.’
‘I don’t care if it’s hare krishna, love. What are you after?’
‘I’d like to talk to you, Mrs Grierson. It’s quite urgent.’
‘You’re getting me all excited, love, but what’s it all about?’
No point in beating about the bush. ‘Thirty years ago, you knew a young man called Edwin Smith who was convicted of murder.’
At once the woman became cautious. ‘And what if I did? Not that I’m admitting anything, mind.’
‘I’m not a policeman, I’m not asking you to admit a thing. I’d just like a word, that’s all. Today, if it’s convenient. If not, maybe tomorrow.’
‘What’s the hurry after thirty years? And why all the sudden interest after such a long time?’
‘You’ve already talked to a man called Miller about Edwin, haven’t you? He told me you had responded to his advertisement, claiming Edwin could not have strangled Carole Jeffries.’
‘Are you a friend of this Miller?’
‘I’m his solicitor. Or should I say, I was.’
‘Sacked you, has he?’
‘He’s dead.’
After a shocked pause, Renata Grierson said, ‘Dead? He can’t be. I only rang him on Thursday. He said he wanted to fix up a meeting with me.’
‘Don’t hold your breath waiting for his call. I almost fell over his body when I called at his house. He’d collapsed in his own front room and now he’s dead, I feel I owe it to him to find out more about the Sefton Park case.’
She snorted down the line. ‘What’s your real interest, Mr Devlin?’
‘Miller persuaded me that Edwin Smith was done a grave injustice. If that’s true, it ought to be put right.’
‘Edwin died a long time ago, Mr Devlin.’
‘Justice doesn’t have a sell-by date,’ said Harry, thinking as he spoke that it was worryingly easy to become the self-important lawyer of a thousand tired caricatures. If he didn’t watch out, he’d start spewing out soundbites like a poor man’s Clive Doxey. Less grandly, he added, ‘Will you spare me half an hour?’
She took a deep breath. ‘I was just getting ready to go out to work this evening, as it happens. I work in an Egyptian restaurant in the city centre, a place called Farouk’s. You can see me afterwards, if you like.’
‘What time do you finish?’
‘No fixed time, but usually late. Come over and have a meal first, if you like. The food’s one of Liverpool’s best-kept secrets, you’ll thank me for tipping you the wink.’
His next task was to chase up the result of Miller’s post mortem. He always found contacting the police by phone a tedious business and was frequently tempted to make every message a 999 call, but eventually he collected the information he wanted.
