Even before the detective’s revelations had sunk in, Harry heard the click-click-click of Jeannie’s heels coming back down the corridor. He had thought himself proof against any further shocks that night, but the expression on her face caused his stomach to lurch. Never had he seen such naked despair.
He stood up and as he took her hand, another single tear rolled down the ruin of her cheek. ‘Have the police spoken to you?’ he asked.
‘Police, police?’ she answered vaguely. ‘No, I’ve been with the doctor. He’s been explaining the situation to me.’
He felt a sick certainty that he knew what was coming. Yet he had to ask. ‘And — what is the situation?’
‘Kevin’s broken both his neck and his spine. He’ll be lucky to survive the night, but if he does, one thing’s for sure. He’ll never walk again. He’ll be a bloody cripple for the rest of his days. My Kev — confined to a fucking wheelchair!’
Harry tightened his grip on her hand but said nothing. There was nothing to say.
The blotches on her skin darkened and when she spoke again her tone was as hard as an asphalt road. ‘That bloody warehouse, it was criminal what they’d done! The window frames around that skylight were rotten through and through. No wonder Kevin fell. I tell you one thing — we’re going to sue them for every penny they’ve got!’
As dawn approached, he unlocked the door to his flat. His limbs were aching and he felt exhausted, but knew he would never be able to sleep after such a night. Stumbling into the shower, he let the jet of hot water burn his skin and wash fatigue away. He had left Jeannie Walter talking to Iqbal about her husband’s condition: the only sure thing was that it would be some time before he was fit enough to be questioned by the police. Harry had said nothing to Jeannie about Gaynor’s allegations: she had enough on her plate. Phrases from Vaulkhard’s talk about the unending quest for justice kept surfacing in his brain and he wondered grimly whether the tabloid which had serialised the Waltergate story had put a clause in the deal to claim its money back if the truth about Kevin proved to be worse than the fiction dreamed up by the crooked cops of the Major Enquiry Squad.
Forget it, he thought as he towelled himself dry, what about Carole Jeffries? Who should have taken Edwin Smith’s place in the condemned cell? During the long chilly hours in the hospital, ideas about the Sefton Park Strangling had jostled around in his head like schoolkids in a bus queue. He simply did not believe Clive Doxey’s denial of involvement with the girl. Yet what could he prove? And would even the existence of a relationship establish a credible motive for murder? So many things still bothered him: the lurking suspicion that Ray Brill had told him something significant was one thing, the old pieces of paper Ken Cafferty had shown him another. He believed he was coming within a touch of the truth, yet still the curtain of time divided him from the murder and made it impossible for him to see precisely what had happened thirty years ago.
By half past five he was at his desk in Fenwick Court, battling through the backlog of paperwork that had accumulated over the past few days. It was a bitterly cold morning, but free from interruptions of clients and staff, he tried to concentrate on the mundane trivia of court correspondence and instructions to counsel. Yet hard though he tried, he could not drag his thoughts away from Carole’s death.
On the stroke of seven he rang Ken Cafferty’s paper in the hope that the reporter was on the early shift. ‘You’re in luck,’ the girl at the other end said. ‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘Are you a mind-reader?’ demanded Ken when he came on the line. ‘How did you know I wanted to speak to you? Is this rumour about Kevin Walter being under arrest true?’
‘So you’ve heard?’
‘I take your answer to mean that it’s gospel truth. Fine, you don’t need to say another word.’
‘Listen, I wasn’t calling about Waltergate. It’s the murder of Carole Jeffries that is really bugging me. Can you spare me a few minutes? We could have breakfast together at The Condemned Man. Would you meet me there in half an hour?’
‘I can make it sooner if you’re so keen.’
‘I was allowing you time to dig out the old cuttings on the Sefton Park case again. I’d like to take another look at them.’
‘You never give up, do you? Okay, let me just have a word with the newsdesk and I’ll see you at Muriel’s.’
‘What’s so interesting about the blacks?’ asked Ken in between mouthfuls of Cumberland sausage.
Harry was bemused. ‘The blacks?’
Ken gestured to the flimsy sheet of yellowing typescript in Harry’s left hand. ‘That’s what we used to call it. After carbon black, you know. Until the new technology came in, all the files would contain their share of blacks. Of course, they contained a lot of stuff that never saw the light of day.’
‘Yes, I can see discrepancies between this and the cutting that is evidently based on the same report.’ Harry traced a finger along one line from the black, where Guy Jeffries was quoted as saying I could never have let her go. ‘But I don’t understand the reason for them.’
‘What you have there is the story the journalist wrote. The sub-editor would have marked the top copy, cut it down to size and crossed out all the split infinitives as well as striking a line through everything libellous. And that bowdlerised version is the one Joe Public would read.’ He took the paper from Harry and glanced at it. ‘This is the first report for the Monday edition after the story broke. Compare it to the clipping that actually appeared. See how the sub has toned down the quotes. In the original you can almost hear that poor bastard Guy Jeffries sobbing in despair; in the final story, he is simply described as distraught and uttering a few platitudes about what a wonderful girl his daughter was.’
Harry took back the sheet. ‘I see he never actually uttered precisely those sentiments.’
Ken tutted. ‘Yes, a bit of sympathetic imagination there, I reckon. I suppose the sub thought that was what Guy would have wanted to say if he was thinking straight.’
‘As a matter of fact, if you look down the page, you’ll notice that the quote extolling Carole’s virtues came from Clive Doxey — described here as a close friend of the family.’
Craning his neck, Ken said, ‘Well, there you are then. Spot of journalistic licence, that’s all.’
A heavy hand clamped down on Harry’s shoulder. ‘What’s this I hear about Kevin Walter?’
‘Been a bad lad, hasn’t he, Muriel?’
‘I hear he’s in a shocking state.’
‘He won’t be raiding any more warehouses for the foreseeable future, that’s true.’
‘And what’s this about some trollop crying rape?’
Harry stared at the huge woman in fascination. ‘How do you know about that?’
She tapped her nose with a finger as thick as one of her own sausages. ‘A little bird told me.’
‘Rape?’ asked Ken, his nose twitching. ‘What’s the crack?’
Harry groaned and pushed his knife and fork to one side. ‘It’s a long story and I haven’t got time to tell you right now. Soon, though, I promise.’
‘Listen,’ said the journalist, ‘you owe me.’
‘More than you think,’ said Harry. ‘I forgot my wallet. Can you settle up with Muriel?’
His next stop was at the Land of the Dead. Officially, the place only opened at nine, but as always, Jock was in early. The little Scot was gulping down a cup of black coffee as Harry walked through the door and huddling up to a twin-bar electric fire which made little impact on the freezing chill of the underground lair. His eyelids were heavy and he looked as though he had not slept.
‘Heavy night?’ asked Harry. ‘You look as bad as I feel.’
‘You know how it is,’ said the archivist with a tired movement of the shoulders. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m on the same mission as before. Can I have another look at Cyril’s file on Edwin Smith?’
‘Surely.’ He led Harry through the maze of relics and rubbish to the place where the old folder was stored. ‘What’s the latest?’
‘You’ll make a gumshoe yet. You were right about Clive Doxey. I’m sure he knows more about this particular miscarriage of justice case than he’s willing to admit.’
‘You’ve spoken to him?’
‘Last night. And what’s more, I’ve been told that on the day of her death, Carole told Benny Frederick that Doxey was the man she wanted to marry.’
‘You’re kidding!’ Jock looked startled, but then a faint grin began to slide across his face.
‘Doxey denies it, but I don’t believe him. However, some pieces don’t fit. With an effort, I can picture elegant
