have been in Sefton Park when Carole took her last stroll?’
‘Absolutely bloody positive.’ Deysbrook burst into a fit of coughing and Harry waited until the old man had composed himself.
‘Carole worked for a well-known photographer by the name of Benny Frederick. Was he in the clear?’
Deysbrook scratched his head. Harry could guess at the effort the man was making to step back thirty years, to a time when he was fit and strong and had a murder on his hands that he was desperate to solve. Finally, he said, ‘Yes, we did speak to him. I soon guessed he was a queer, though he would never have admitted it. In those days, it was a crime. People like that were ashamed of themselves — and afraid. Now they expect a bloody medal and a government grant.’
‘Any reason to think he might have had a grudge against Carole?’
Deysbrook shrugged. From the way he flinched it seemed that even this simple gesture caused him pain. ‘He reckoned to be cut up about the girl’s death, but who knows?’
‘Any alibi?’
‘Can’t recall. It was a long time ago, Mr Devlin.’
‘What about Clive Doxey — Sir Clive, as he now is?’
‘Oh yeah, I remember him all right. Pal of the girl’s father and a right pain in the arse. Important chap, even then, a bigwig and he made sure you knew it. I liked him even less than the other feller — and I could never stand queers.’
‘You questioned him about his movements?’
‘He wasn’t at all co-operative. As far as he was concerned, we were wasting valuable time questioning him which we could have spent finding the killer.’
‘I take it he had the opportunity to have committed the murder?’
‘Maybe, though again I can’t remember after all this time. To us, he was just another do-gooder — always making a fuss about police brutality, yet he was the first to complain when we didn’t make an arrest within half an hour.’
‘But now? Are you prepared to accept that Carole might have been killed by someone other than Edwin Smith?’
‘I’d need to speak to this Renata woman of yours before I said yea or nay to that.’ He sighed and added grudgingly, ‘But supposing she’s told you the truth — well, maybe we did make a mistake.’
Harry was unable to resist saying, ‘Good job the death penalty’s been abolished, eh?’
Vincent Deysbrook started to cough again, a hoarse retching sound, and Harry realised with a stab of dismay how sick the old detective was and how much it had cost him to talk for so long, let alone have the guts to admit the possibility that his own prejudices might have sent an innocent man to the gallows.
‘That’s where you’re wrong, Mr Devlin,’ he said when he was able to speak again. His tone was subdued, as if he knew that before long his own fight would reach its end, and Harry sensed that in his mind’s eye he was seeing again the dark shadow of the X-ray of his lung. ‘The death penalty hasn’t been abolished, I can vouch for that. I only wish it had.’
Chapter Seventeen
Shirley Titchard had agreed to meet him in one of the shops she owned. After he had explained his interest in the Sefton Park case, her manner on the telephone had been crisp and businesslike.
‘I can’t imagine why you think I can tell you anything, but I don’t mind giving you half an hour. I suppose it will make a change from keeping an eye on the girls. The manageress at Caesar Street is on holiday for the week, so I’m having to run the branch myself, but you can have half an hour, all right?’
The shop was tucked between a tobacconist’s and a derelict snooker hall; the street was a dead end and noisy ten-year-olds were playing soccer alongside the burnt-out wreck of a stolen car. Jasmine House was no more than five miles away, but it might have been in a different country. Harry pushed open the door and stepped inside. At once the hubbub of voices died down and he was conscious of the scrutiny of a dozen scowling faces. The light was dim and the extractor fan did not seem to work: the smoke made his eyes smart and he couldn’t help thinking to himself that a few of Shirley Titchard’s customers would one day end their lives in the same despair as Vincent Deysbrook.
His only acquaintance with horse racing was through the novels of Dick Francis and they had not prepared him for the scruffy reality of this place. The walls were covered with cuttings from the sporting press and the racing pages of the national newspapers. Opposite the entrance, a washable white board was covered with offers of odds scrawled in every colour imaginable. In the middle of the room, a television stood on a pillar: a man in the kind of trilby Harry had never seen worn except in old movies was talking rapidly about runners and riders. Through thick mesh grilles he could glimpse two women cashiers, their attention caught by a loudspeaker voice announcing that a horse had withdrawn from the three o’clock at Sandown and that the latest prices would be coming through shortly. The punters were perched on stools or sitting round small tables. Most had cans of beer in their hands, but they had paused in their drinking and study of the form to examine Harry, but even as he looked around and absorbed the scene, one by one they turned back to the papers or the TV. Some started to scribble out bets on slips of paper. Gambling was a serious business and not even the sight of a stranger in a suit could distract them for long.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Mr Devlin?’
He turned to face a stocky woman with tightly permed blonde hair. Her short-sleeved blouse revealed muscular forearms and the cut of her jaw made it clear that she stood for no messing. She was weighing him up as though she’d been asked to give odds on how long he would survive in a fight with one of her regulars.
‘That’s me. And you are Shirley Titchard?’
A brisk nod. ‘Come through.’
As she led him towards the security door which led from the public area, her path was blocked by a man with beery breath who had seized a teenage lad in denim by the throat. Without hesitating, she gripped the man’s wrist and forced him to face her.
‘Not here. If you’ve got a score to settle, do it somewhere else.’
The man gave her a baleful glance but did not argue. Instead he shook his fist at the youth and said, ‘Next time, pal, next time…’
As she unlocked the door to the back part of the shop, she said to Harry, ‘You need to show people who’s in charge. Otherwise they take liberties.’
‘You have much trouble?’
‘Nothing I can’t handle. An hour ago, a kid collapsed in the toilet. He’d been sniffing glue in there, the little bastard. His mates were doped up to the eyeballs and pissing themselves with laughter. I had to get things sorted sharpish. He could easily have died.’
‘Jesus.’
She gave him a look of Thatcheresque severity. ‘It would have been no loss, but I can’t afford an interruption to business. My late husband built this chain up. I reckon I owe it to him to keep it going.’
They were standing behind a counter girl who was arguing with a punter who had not filled out his slip in the approved manner. Shirley Titchard shook her head and said, ‘Let’s talk in the kitchen. It’s the only spot in here where we’ll be able to make ourselves heard once the next race starts.’
She took him into a cubbyhole which, although equipped with a grimy sink and the wherewithal for making tea and coffee, was flattered by the name of kitchen. When she shut the door, the noise from outside was muffled but still audible. He wedged himself between the draining board and the fire exit at the rear while she stood with her back to the way in.
‘Well now, Mr Devlin. What is it you want to know about my old friend Carole Jeffries?’
There was a derisive note in her voice that he found difficult to interpret. He said, ‘As I said on the phone, a question has come up about whether the man who was jailed for killing her really did it.’
‘Sounds a long shot to me. He confessed, didn’t he?’
