out none of the essentials, but he decided to say nothing for the time being about Benny Frederick’s claim that Carole had fallen for Doxey. The great man listened intently, not interrupting; if he had been incredulous at first, he seemed gradually to absorb the enormity of what Harry was saying — that if Smith was innocent, Carole must have died at the hands of someone hitherto unsuspected. When the story was complete, he stroked his jaw thoughtfully before speaking.
‘An extraordinary tale, Mr Devlin. Assuming you are correct, of course.’
‘I believe Renata was telling me the truth. And I’m sure Miller was on the right track.’
‘You’re not suggesting he was murdered for his pains, I gather. That really would be storybook stuff.’
‘No, I spoke again to someone I know in the police before I came out tonight. They’re positive that Miller was not killed by anyone. It was an accidental death. All the same, I am intrigued by his Saturday visitor. Who can it have been?’
‘Well,’ said Doxey with a heavy sigh, ‘I’m afraid I cannot help you there.’
‘That may be, Sir Clive, but you knew the Jeffries family as well as anyone. I would be grateful if you could tell me a little more about them.’
Doxey glanced at Kim and Harry sensed that, had she not been there, he would have made some excuse and left. But he had made a name for himself as someone prepared to delve into any case that carried the faintest whiff of unfairness. He could not escape just yet. So he took refuge in a display of candour.
‘You understand, Mr Devlin, this is painful for me. The killing of Carole Jeffries was not like any other case. I knew her well and Guy and Kathleen were old and dear friends.’
‘Tell me about them.’
Doxey made a show of casting his mind back in time before saying, ‘They first met at the University as students, as I recall. This was before I knew them, but I gather that both were thought to be destined for brilliant careers. Kathleen was as formidable a mathematician as Guy was a political philosopher. Things didn’t work out quite as they planned and Kathleen fell pregnant with Carole.’
‘So there was a shotgun wedding?’
‘You imply that Guy was reluctant to marry, which I think was far from the case. He adored her in those days — as he adored his daughter from the moment she was born. But there were complications with the birth; I never knew the precise details, but Kathleen had gynaecological problems from that day on and having another child was never on the agenda. She suffered from ill health and her career took a back seat while she brought Carole up.’
‘Did she resent that?’
‘Like many mothers, I suppose she had mixed feelings.’
‘And her relationship with Guy when you knew them?’
‘Oh, as I said, he was devoted to her.’
‘Come on,’ said Harry impatiently. ‘You were talking about the time they first married. Did they drift apart later? I gather he once had a reputation as a ladies’ man.’
Doxey seemed on the point of objecting to Harry’s bluntness, then changed his mind. ‘Yes, Guy was a good- looking fellow, of course, sociable and outgoing. He didn’t see it as his role to stay at home lending moral support whilst his wife brought up their child. He was out most nights, giving lectures or attending political meetings, and when he stayed at home he would be closeted in his study, working on a book or an article.’
‘But that changed after Carole died, didn’t it?’
‘Yes, he went to pieces. Nervous breakdown; drink; drugs too, I suspect. Certainly he died of an overdose. In the weeks and months after the murder, I called on them several times. I was as shell-shocked by what had happened as anyone.’ He paused, as if debating exactly what to say next. ‘In a sense I thought Carole’s death might have brought us all even closer together, but Kathleen was fiercely protective of Guy and, however selfishly, I began to feel excluded. As for Guy, he seemed for a time to have lost the will to live, but she helped him survive for another fifteen years. Long before then, he was lost to the Labour cause: even on election night in the October of that year, he stayed at home with Kathleen and refused every invitation to join the rest of us as we celebrated our victory.’
Doxey shook his head. ‘He started working again eventually and wrote the occasional article. But the spark had gone. It was as if almost overnight a young Turk had transformed into a weary elder statesman. I sat in on one or two of his public lectures during the late sixties and early seventies, but he’d become rambling, forgetful and bereft of ideas. Harold Wilson’s people were dubbed Yesterday’s Men, but the description fitted nobody better than Guy Jeffries himself. I last saw him during that dreadful winter of ’78-’79, with rubbish piled high in the streets and the dead left unburied. So much for our socialist dream, I said to him. Both of us realised the Tories were likely to regain power and the prospect proved too much for poor Guy. His health was ruined, he had nothing left to live for. Suicide must have seemed the easy way out.’
‘And Kathleen? How did she cope during those difficult years?’
‘I don’t think I’d claim I’ve ever really understood her. She’s strong, but quiet, and I’ve never seen her face betray a single emotion in all the years I’ve known her. I’m sure she was shattered by Carole’s death, but I’ve never heard her utter the girl’s name from that day to this. I think it was her way of blocking the tragedy out of her mind. Yet I will say this, Mr Devlin. I have always admired her.’
Doxey exhaled and sat back in his chair. He had seemed tense throughout their conversation but now he was beginning to relax. He reminded Harry of a politician who has seen off the sharpest questions at a press conference and has started to wax lyrical about the contribution made to his success by a devoted wife and family. The time had come to discard the velvet gloves.
‘But not quite as much as you admired Carole?’
Doxey stared at him. ‘I’m not sure I follow your meaning.’
‘She was in love with you, wasn’t she? I presume she didn’t lack encouragement.’
‘That is an outrageous suggestion! She was only sixteen!’
Harry was aware of Kim giving his shins a warning kick under the table, but it was too late to change direction. ‘I’m sorry you see it like that, Sir Clive. I’m not accusing you of discreditable conduct. But I am told that, on the day of her death, Carole Jeffries had intended to propose to you.’
‘Enough!’ Doxey rose clumsily to his feet. ‘I’m not prepared to listen to any more of this! Kim, I’m sorry, but I must wish you goodnight. It is late and I must return to my hotel.’ He turned to Harry. ‘As for you, Mr Devlin, I applaud your intentions. I have no doubt you mean well. But in my view that does not entitle you to make offensive insinuations about my personal conduct.’ And with that, he strode briskly away.
Harry gave Kim a rueful grin. ‘A picture of injured dignity, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘My sources, as the journalists would say, are impeccable. Let me buy you another drink and I’ll tell you all about it.’
He brought her up to date with the latest developments and was rewarded by the absorption with which she listened. When he had finished she asked what he made of it all.
‘I don’t believe your friend Sir Clive. I think he was involved in some way with Carole Jeffries.’
She leaned closer to him. ‘And what do you deduce from that?’
The crowd in the bar was thinning out. He glanced at his watch and said awkwardly, ‘Look, we’re going to be chucked out of here soon. My flat’s two minutes away. Would you like to come round for a coffee and I’ll explain the way my mind’s working?’
She smiled and said, ‘You make it sound like an offer no woman could refuse.’
He felt himself blushing. He hadn’t meant to proposition her; his head was already spinning as a result of what Doxey had said, for he thought he was close to understanding the reason for Carole’s death.
A few seconds passed as Kim watched him with a wry look on her face. Then the pager in his pocket began to bleep. He fumbled for it and, with a stammered excuse, hurried to the payphone next to the exit door. When he returned a couple of minutes later, it was with an overwhelming sense of despair.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘Patrick Vaulkhard had better tear up his script,’ he said bitterly. ‘He won’t be needing it again. The call was from Jeannie Walter, she wants me to go over and meet her right now. Kevin is in hospital with a police guard ringing the operating theatre. A couple of hours ago, he fell through a skylight while taking part in an armed robbery at a Customs warehouse.’
