Chapter Twenty
Tears had streaked the mascara on Jeannie Walter’s ravaged face and the damp marks glistened under the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital waiting room. She was pacing back and forth across the linoleum floor and chewing her fingernails with a desperate savagery. The police had called her away from a party and underneath the fur jacket she had bought on the day of the courtroom settlement she was wearing a tight black cocktail dress and little else. In this place of draughty echoing corridors her presence was as incongruous as that of a fan-dancer at a funeral.
‘He’s got less brain than a fucking sparrow,’ she said. ‘He had no need to do it, no need at all.’
She had been saying the same thing since Harry’s arrival. He had forborne to suggest that Kevin could not help it, that crime was in his blood, that he could no more give up wrongdoing than a junkie could forsake his needle. A few minutes earlier he had spoken to the policemen who were waiting for news of Kevin’s injuries. They were in confident mood: the operation to catch the warehouse thieves in the act had been a complete success. That one of those involved had sustained serious injuries while scurrying across a rooftop in a vain attempt to escape was scarcely cause for concern — especially once he had been identified as Kevin Walter, so recently the scourge of the South West Lancashire Major Enquiry Squad.
Apparently the police had received a tip-off: the job had been planned for months and presumably Kevin had not regarded the outcome of his court case as any reason for pulling out at a late stage. They even wondered if their informant had been jealous of Kevin’s success in the legal lucky dip. It didn’t matter — as well as him, they had six more of the city’s toughest career criminals under lock and key.
A doctor approached them. His manner was grave and he spoke in a sympathetic murmur. ‘Mrs Walter? My name’s Iqbal. I have just come down from the theatre. Can I speak to you in private for a moment?’
‘What’s the matter? Where’s Kev? What state is he in?’ Jeannie was on the point of seizing him by the lapels of his white coat.
The doctor put a restraining hand on her arm. ‘Mrs Walter, this is a difficult time for you, I realise. Please, let us find a room where we can talk together.’
She turned to Harry. ‘For Christ’s sake, why won’t they tell me anything?’
Seldom had he felt so helpless. Gently, he said, ‘Talk to the doctor, Jeannie, he’ll tell you as much as he knows.’
She bit her lower lip and said, ‘All right. But don’t go, will you? Promise you’ll be here when I get back.’
‘I promise,’ he said, although at that moment he would rather have been anywhere else in the world.
Leaning on Iqbal’s shoulder for support, she tottered down the corridor and out of sight. Harry sat down on a hard black plastic chair and took a last sip from his polystyrene cup of vending machine coffee. The silence was broken only by the occasional trudge of weary night staff and the squeaking trolley wheels that set his teeth on edge. He closed his eyes, not daring to imagine how badly hurt Kevin might be. Come what may, it would be a long time before his next robbery. The stupidity of so many of his clients kept Harry in work, but he cursed Kevin’s greed, all the same. Why were people never satisfied, why did they always want more, why did the rich man take pleasure in dodging a little income tax?
‘Having a rough night?’ asked a voice he recognised.
He glanced up and saw a tall blond-haired man whose hands were sunk deep in the pockets of his raincoat. ‘Hello, Pete, I didn’t expect to see you here. And to answer your question, yes, I have had better evenings.’
Detective Sergeant Peter Olson gave him a grim but not unsympathetic smile. ‘I don’t like to kick a man when he’s down, but you may find things soon get worse.’
‘I doubt it. My client’s seriously injured and likely to go down for years when he finally recovers. His wife’s hysterical and I’m sitting here unable to do anything to offer her consolation. How can things get worse?’
‘You acted for Kevin Walter in his compensation claim, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, and I don’t suppose the people from the old Major Enquiries Squad will be heartbroken by tonight’s events.’
‘Not just tonight’s events, Harry,’ said Olson softly.
‘What else?’
Olson sat down next to him. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this yet awhile, perhaps, but I don’t see that forewarning you will change anything. Fact is, a woman has come forward. Her name is Gaynor and she used to be a prostitute on the Falkner Square beat. She’s accused your client of raping her.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Harry through gritted teeth. ‘When is he supposed to have done that? During his period of wrongful imprisonment?’
Olson smirked like a gameshow host about to reveal the night’s star prize. ‘Five years ago, on the ninth of March to be precise.’
Harry stared at him. ‘Are you kidding? That was…’
A complacent nod. ‘The same date as the robbery of the jeweller in Southport, yes?’
‘It’s impossible!’
‘All too possible, Harry, I can assure you. She tells us he picked her up that night, but didn’t want to pay for what she had to offer. There was a struggle and he finished up beating the shit out of her as well as raping her against an alley wall.’
‘Come on now. This is the first anyone’s heard of it.’
‘She never reported it at the time, of course. Prostitutes often don’t, as you well know. They seem to regard an occasional battering as all part of the job and, rightly or wrongly, they don’t expect to receive much sympathy from us. Besides, she saw in the newspaper that Kevin had been picked up for the Southport job. She knew he was innocent of that, but it seemed to her that he’d got his just deserts.’
‘And is there any evidence to support her story?’
‘Several people can vouch for it. We’ve done our homework, we have to in a case like this. Wouldn’t want to be accused of harassing an innocent man, acting out of spite as a result of his court case, would we? We’ve spoken to other girls who were out that night, including one who can remember seeing Kev pick up her mate. They operate their own mutual security system, jotting down the numbers of punters’ cars, just in case anything nasty might happen. And there’s more.’
Harry groaned. ‘Break it to me gently.’
‘This afternoon we traced the cleric who found her lying a few yards away from the Cathedral and helped wipe the blood and tears away. He’d urged her to report the attack to us, but respected her right to keep silent. Short of serving a subpoena on God, I’d say he’s as close to a perfect witness as I’ll ever meet.’
Olson had an answer for everything. ‘So why has Gaynor suddenly decided to speak up?’ Harry asked heavily.
‘Because of all the fuss on the telly about bloody Waltergate, of course. The sight of Jeannie portraying Kev as the innocent victim got right up Gaynor’s nose. And I suppose she thought the media might be interested in her story too. She’s a reformed character, you know. Married one of her punters who runs an estate agency — from one kind of exploitation to another, eh?’
‘Holy shit.’ Harry shook his head in dismay. ‘No wonder Walter had trouble providing the South Lancs boys with an alibi for the crime he didn’t commit.’
‘Funny the way things turn out, innit?’ said Olson happily.
‘Hilarious.’
‘Don’t look so glum. I’m sure you were well paid for the case you brought against the Squad. And you ought to be rubbing your hands at the prospect of all the extra business. Though even a lad with your imagination may find it hard to persuade the court that Kev took part in the robbery while the balance of his bank account was disturbed.’
‘I suppose I ought to say thanks for tipping me the wink,’ said Harry, ‘but frankly, I preferred blissful ignorance.’
‘Ah well,’ said Peter Olson, ‘you can’t win ’em all. Be seeing you.’
