Something in Leo’s tone made Harry ask. ‘Did you know him, by any chance?’
Leo flushed. ‘As a matter of fact, I did. As you know, I’ve always been crazy about pop, and in the early sixties I was in my teens and Liverpool was the perfect place to be. I would hang around places like the Cavern and the shops run by people like Brian Epstein and Benny Frederick and…’
‘So you knew Benny, too?’
‘Well, yes, he and I — we go back a long way.’
‘You were close friends?’
‘What if we were? Why are you asking all these personal questions?’
‘And Warren Hull?’ pursued Harry. ‘He was much older, of course, more than twice your age. Did he take you under his wing?’
Leo’s pale face reddened. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he said, ‘If you must know, Warren was a swine.’ He specialised in young boys and teenagers. I was simply one of many. For a short time he courted me, until he had his way and then — and then he moved on to his next victim. It was as if I had never existed. He treated me like dirt.’
‘Did Benny know this?’
‘Of course. He was — kind to me afterwards. He and I had no secrets in those days, even though he had money and I was just another young lad who was crazy about the Merseybeat.’
‘What was Benny’s relationship with Warren Hull?’
‘Oh, he took his photograph and all that, but basically he loathed him. Most people who knew anything about Warren did. I promise you, few tears were shed when we heard that he had been murdered.’
‘Sounds as if there can have been no shortage of suspects.’
Leo shrugged. ‘I told you. The police never charged anyone.’
‘Did they question you?’
Despite the chatter all around, it seemed to Harry that there was an almost interminable silence before Leo answered. ‘What are you implying? Of course they found out about Warren and me. But I was only one of his conquests.’
‘And did you have an alibi?’
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Leo, ‘I did.’
Harry gave him a direct look. ‘Do you mind telling me what it was?’
‘I can’t see that it’s any business of yours,’ said Leo sulkily. ‘Aren’t you taking this detective stunt rather too far?’
‘I can’t force you to tell me anything,’ Harry agreed.
Leo sighed. ‘Oh, what the hell? If you must know, on the night Warren Hull was murdered, I was staying over at Benny’s home.’
Harry nodded. ‘I see.’
Leo licked his lips. ‘Look, it all happened a very long time ago and I can’t see that any of this can have any bearing on Ray Brill’s death. I think I’ve answered enough questions. Do you still want to have a look at that album or not?’
‘Please.’
They edged through the crowd towards a set of tables in the far corner of the room. Leo pointed to a row of cardboard boxes marked ’50s, ’60s, ’70s, ’80s and ’90s. ‘After all this build-up, let’s hope it hasn’t been snapped up since this morning.’
Harry leaned over the ’60s box and flipped through the tattered record sleeves with a practised hand. The Allisons, Herb Alpert, John Barry, The Beach Boys, Jane Birkin and Serge Gainsbourg, The Beatles, Pat Boone, The Box Tops and — success! — an album called Brill Cream.
He froze in the act of stretching out his hand for the record. What he saw on the grimy sleeve hit him like an electric shock.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ said Harry croakily. ‘I mean… yes, of course I am.’
‘I didn’t think you expected it to be in pristine condition,’ said Leo, ‘but there’s no need to make a performance about it. You can always negotiate on the price.’
‘It’s not the state of the record that bothers me,’ said Harry slowly.
‘Then what’s the matter? I’ve never known you act as strangely as you are today.’
‘Look at the picture,’ said Harry, his voice hoarse.
Leo stared at the sleeve. ‘Yeah, yeah, it’s the Brill Brothers. Two fresh-faced young lads singing some sugary heartbreaker as if their lives depended on it. So what? One thing is for sure, Ray Brill changed a good deal over the years. I bet by the time he died he looked like an old man.’
‘Can’t you see? It’s not Ray Brill that I was looking at.’
‘I’m still not with you,’ said Leo, unable to conceal his impatience.
Harry shook his head. He was beyond speech. Echoing in his head was the lyric of an old Dionne number he had played as recently as last weekend. A line about all the stars that never were, who wound up parking cars and pumping gas. And all at once, he realised that he knew who had murdered Ray Brill — and why.
Twenty minutes later he was back in the Land of the Dead. He’d left Leo Devaney at the record fair, bewildered by his sudden urge to get away as soon as he had paid for the old record.
‘It’s not in great nick,’ said the stallholder as he took the money.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Harry had said before he bade Leo a hasty farewell. From a payphone outside he made a quick call to Kim Lawrence to check one fact, then hurried through the city streets towards the river, scarcely aware of the steadily falling snow.
Once underground, he bustled through the familiar passageways. Everywhere was quiet. Jock was at his desk as usual. He looked up in surprise as Harry entered his domain and pushed the half-moon spectacles on to his forehead.
‘What brings you here? Have you got some more news?’
Harry registered that the little Scot sounded exhausted. For once Jock was giving no sign that he relished the prospect of detective talk.
‘Ray Brill is dead.’
‘What? Good grief. How did it happen? Did he fall off Southport Pier last night in a drunken stupor?’
‘No, someone called on him at home and bashed his head in, then set the place alight to make it look as if he’d died in an accidental fire.’
Jock scratched his bald head. ‘Arson? I can’t believe that. Surely there’s some mistake?’
‘No mistake,’ said Harry. ‘Except that the murderer got into a rut. He repeated himself once too often.’
Jock stared at him. ‘You’re not talking sense.’
‘I only wish that were true. But you see, I’ve finally figured out what happened. Ernest Miller lost interest in the Sefton Park case because he learned about another unsolved crime. And on this occasion, he was actually told who the culprit was. Hence he had to die. Ray Brill was the only other person in the world who knew and it was simply too dangerous to allow him to survive.’
‘What do you mean?’
Harry sighed. He slipped the long-player out of its polythene bag and pointed to the photograph on the front cover. ‘I mean that the moment I recognised you, I realised you must have been the one who killed Ray Brill. And realised that your real name must be Ian McCalliog — although at one time everyone knew you better as Ian Brill.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
The bewilderment on Jock’s face slowly gave way to fear. He half-rose to his feet, then seemed to think better of it and sank back into his chair. Harry could sense his desperate efforts to compose himself, saw his eyelids
