I Remember You Read online

  Title Page

  I Remember You

  by

  Martin Edwards

  Publisher Information

  Copyright © 1993, 2012 Martin Edwards.

  This edition published in 2012 by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The right of Martin Edwards to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Introduction © 2012 Margaret Murphy

  Appreciation © 2012 Michael Jecks

  Excerpt from Yesterday’s Papers © 2012 Martin Edwards.

  Note from the author: In writing this book, I have been grateful for the help of friends and colleagues expert on the Liverpool and legal scenes. Nevertheless, this is a work of fiction and all the characters, firms, organisations and incidents described are wholly imaginary. So far as I know, they do not resemble any counterparts in the real world; in the unlikely event that any similarity does exist, it is an unintended coincidence.

  Dedication

  Dedicated to Jonathan

  Introduction

  Harry Devlin is that most traditional of detectives - the amateur sleuth - yet he is no mere dilettante. Devlin is a lawyer who defends clients in criminal cases, so he knows the law, and he knows the criminal mind. Martin Edwards has played with the genre to produce in Devlin a man who knows his stuff, and whose encounters with criminals and criminality have more plausibility than the average fictional amateur detective. Devlin is an eminently likeable character; open-hearted and kind, with a dry sense of humour. Yet he redeems himself from obnoxious perfection: he is also unlucky in love, and sometimes displays more curiosity than common sense in his investigations. He is endearing and infuriating by turns, but always sympathetic. He has seen the worst of humankind, but he is tolerant of others’ foibles; worldly-wise, yes, and perhaps sometimes even a little world-weary - but he always able to see the absurdity as well as the darkness in the situations he fetches up in. Devlin wants people to want to do the right thing, rather than to impose his brand of morality on them - and you have to like a man who believes in the intrinsic goodness of humankind, but rejects entirely the temptation to preach.

  I Remember You was written - and is firmly rooted - in the Liverpool of the early nineteen-nineties, when the city’s elevation to Capital of Culture was still a decade-and-a-half away. European money had secured the reclamation of the Albert Dock, creating luxury apartments and quality retail units in a beautiful waterfront setting. But by 1993, the year in which I Remember You was published, Liverpool had suffered decades of decline; the manufacturing base of the city had been eroded, unemployment was high, and many of those dockside businesses did not flourish. It seemed that post-Militant Tendency, pre-regeneration Liverpool simply did not know what to do with luxury.

  As a Liverpudlian, the picture I retain of the city at that time is grey, windswept and litter strewn. But it was also a landscape of opposites - and as a solicitor specialising in criminal law, Harry Devlin moves (sometimes uneasily) between the worlds of Chamber of Commerce types with their black tie dos, and low-life scallywags who drink in back street hotels where rooms can be hired by the hour.

  When I think of schoolfriends, the names Sheehey and Dolan and Cusack and Donnelly come easily to mind - second generation Irish immigrants raised during the Anglo-Irish troubles. Feelings on both sides remained strong well into in the nineteen-nineties, and Edwards marks the ties as well as the sectarian divisions between Liverpool and Ireland in this story.

  I Remember You is the third in the Harry Devlin series; Martin Edwards is always strong on plot, and his trademark dry humour is evident here, alongside some pithy insights into jurisprudence. Indeed, some of the subtext-told-in-monologue is reminiscent of Yes, Minister - and just as funny.

  Margaret Murphy

  www.margaretmurphy.co.uk

  Chapter One

  Flames licked at the building, greedy as the tongues of teenage lovers. They curled out from the windows above the shopfront and up to the gutters, fierce in their hunger, intent on conquest.

  The smell of burning filled Harry Devlin’s sinuses. Smoke stung his eyes and the back of his throat.

  ‘Don’t even think of going in there.’

  ‘For the love of Jases,’ said Finbar Rogan. ‘What d’you think I have for brains? I’d not try to force my way inside if the missus herself was trapped the other side of that door.’ He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Come to think of it, if she was - I’d be chucking in a match or two myself.’

  A thunderous splintering of glass made them duck in a reflex of self-defence. Straightening up, Harry saw the first-floor panes disintegrate. He shielded his face as a thousand shards showered the paving all around.

  Finbar cried out in pain and stumbled to the ground. Seeing blood trickle from a cut on the Irishman’s cheek, Harry didn’t hesitate. In a matter of seconds, he dragged Finbar back towards the shelter of a doorway on the other side of the street. There they leaned against each other for support, fighting for breath as the fumes leaked into their lungs.

  The narrowness of Williamson Lane intensified the heat and Harry felt the skin of his face tingle. Finbar groaned and wiped the blood away with his sleeve.

  ‘Thanks for that, mate,’ he gasped. ‘So now we know what we’re in for when we go to Hell.’

  ‘Speak for yourself.’

  ‘Listen, you’re a solicitor. Even I have a better chance of Heaven.’

  Harry couldn’t help grinning at his client. Even as his business blazed on this cold October night, Finbar showed no sign of fear or despair. He would always scoff at any unkindness of the Fates.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’ll live to claim the insurance, don’t you fret.’

  Never before had Harry witnessed at such close quarters the raging passion of a fire out of control. A dozen viewings of Mrs Danvers perishing in the ruins of Hitchcock’s Manderley had not prepared him for this; nor could he have imagined that the city centre could be so claustrophobic. He had a dizzy sense of everything closing in on him.

  Disaster had begun to seduce late night Liverpool’s passers-by, excited by the sound and fury. ‘Better than Blackpool bloody illuminations!’ someone bellowed from the safety of the adjoining square.

  The wail of a siren pierced the hubbub, growing louder as each second passed. Harry could hear the fire engines’ roar and saw people pressing back into the shadows, making way as first one, then another of the vehicles rounded the corner and pulled up with a shriek twenty yards away.

  ‘The cavalry,’ said Finbar.

  Suddenly the place was teeming with firefighters. In their yellow headgear and drip pants, navy blue tunics with silvery reflective stripes and rubber boots with steel toe-caps, they might have been storm-troopers from a distant planet. They moved to a pre-ordained routine, running the hose along the ground, connecting it to a hydrant, waving the crowd back, roping off the end of the street. Harry and Finbar were the only spectators within fifty feet of the fire. A man whose white helmet marked his seniority hurried towards them.

  ‘Anyone left inside?’ His urgent tone held no hint of panic.

  ‘No one,’ Finbar called back. ‘Though I mi
ght have been in there doing my books if this feller hadn’t been due to buy the next round.’

  The officer spoke into a walkie-talkie, ordering help from an appliance with a turntable ladder, keeping watch all the time on the spread of the fire.

  ‘You own the shop which sells leathers? Or the travel agents next door?’

  ‘No, I’m up above.’

  The words on the blackened signboard at first-floor level were hard to decipher. The officer peered at them. ‘Tattooist’s studio, is that? You’re the feller I heard on Radio Liverpool this morning?’

  ‘The one and only. Liverpool’s Leonardo da Vinci.’ With boozy bravado, Finbar shrugged off his jacket and ripped open his shirt. On his chest was an extravagant, multicoloured image of a naked woman astride a horse. Her modesty was not quite saved by long dark tresses, and she seemed unaware of the exophthalmic scrutiny of a caricatured Peeping Tom.

  ‘I’ll gladly autograph you as a souvenir,’ he offered. ‘And if you can salvage the electric needles I keep up there, I’ll turn you into the Illustrated Man free of charge.’

  The officer tipped his helmet back, a now-I’ve-seen-everything expression spreading across his face.

  ‘Thanks very much, but I’m pretty as a picture as it is.’

  In the distance, a second siren howled its warning.

  ‘Here come the police,’ said Harry. Ruefully, he asked himself why, earlier that evening, he hadn’t refused Finbar’s invitation for a quick one. He knew the folly of becoming too closely involved with his clients and their misfortunes, yet it was a mistake he could never help making. If only he’d been taught at college the knack of remaining aloof, of concentrating on rules in books, instead of becoming fascinated by the people who broke them...

  ‘Anything combustible in there?’ demanded the fire officer.

  Finbar bowed his head, momentarily abashed. ‘I had paint and thinners on the landing. Been planning to decorate. Early resolution for next New Year.’ He gazed up at the flame-lit heavens. ‘Sod’s law, eh? I should have left the dirt to hold the place together.’

  ‘What about the ceiling tiles?’

  ‘Polystyrene.’

  ‘Perfect. A fire trap, waiting for a spark. All right - wait here out of harm’s way while I take a gander.’

  As the officer rejoined his men, a police car appeared, its lights flashing. One of its occupants raced towards the blaze, the other strode towards Harry and Finbar, waving his arms like a farmer directing sheep.

  ‘Move, will you? Don’t - hey, for Chrissake, it’s Harry Devlin! What are you doing here, pal? I thought you chased ambulances, not fire engines.’

  Harry nodded a greeting. He knew Roy Gilfillan of old.

  ‘Where there’s a disaster, there’s sure to be a solicitor. Finbar’s a client. We were having a pint in the Dock Brief, putting the world to rights, when some bloke burst in and said a building in Williamson Lane had gone up in flames. We dashed over and it turns out to be - ’

  Another siren interrupted him and he swung round to watch the arrival of the turntable while Roy Gilfillan marched over to his colleague, who was conferring with the fire officer outside the entrance to Finbar’s studio. Harry noticed the Irishman’s eyes slide away from the fire to a couple of girls in the crowd behind them, blondes en route for a nightclub who had paused to goggle at the inferno. Finbar winked at them and was rewarded by smirks of encouragement. Even at a time like this he was incorrigible.

  ‘Do you need to call Melissa?’ asked Harry, hoping to lead Finbar away from temptation. ‘Tell her what’s happened?’

  ‘No problem. She’s not neurotic, not like Sinead, doesn’t make a fuss when I tell her to expect me when she sees me. I’m not a train, I don’t run to timetables.’

  ‘Neither does InterCity, but at least it stays on the rails most of the time.’

  Finbar chuckled. ‘Truth to tell, I’ve a lot on my plate already, so far as the fair sex are concerned - even leaving Sinead and her bloody alimony demands aside. I bumped into a girl I used to know only this morning. A lovely lady. I reckon I might be able to persuade her to rekindle the flame - ’scuse the phrase, in present circumstances. And then there’s Melissa ... Jases!’

  Across the street, the door which led to the tattoo parlour finally disintegrated in an explosion worthy of an Exocet. Awestruck, Harry and Finbar gazed at the wreckage. Above them, men in breathing masks were directing water jets from the top of the ladder down on to the blaze, while at ground level two more firefighters armed with axes moved towards the entrance. Safe behind the cordon, winos cheered as if on the terraces at Anfield. Oblivious to his audience, the fire chief pointed towards the building. The policemen stared obediently at something, then Gilfillan gestured for Harry and Finbar to approach. The two of them edged closer.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Finbar. ‘Any closer and I’ll get scorch marks on Lady Godiva.’

  ‘Smell that!’ shouted Gilfillan, pointing towards the doorway.

  No mistaking the stink of petrol from close range. Harry exchanged a look with the policeman.

  ‘And see the inside of the passageway?’

  The fumes made their eyes water, but squinting through the hole Harry saw charred walls immediately beyond the space where the door had been.

  Finbar pushed a hand through his unruly dark hair. He was a stocky man, barely as tall as Harry but broader in the shoulder and a few years older; yet his wonderment was that of a wide-eyed schoolboy.

  ‘Are you telling me this wasn’t an accident?’

  The policeman shrugged. ‘The seat of fire seems to have been the other side of your front door - the burning is worse there than further up the stairs. Add that to the smell and there’s only one diagnosis.’

  ‘Arson?’ asked Harry. For all the heat, he felt a sudden chill.

  ‘Suspected malicious ignition,’ Gilfillan’s colleague corrected him primly, before turning to Finbar. ‘Is there anyone who might have a grudge against you?’

  Finbar looked nonplussed. After a pause for thought, he allowed a guilty grin to lift the corners of his mouth. It was a moment of self-knowledge.

  ‘Only everyone I’ve ever met.’

  Chapter Two

  Two hours later Harry was standing on the doorstep of a club listed in the phone book as the Dangerous Liaison, but known to everyone in Liverpool as the Danger. Finbar had persuaded him to come here against his better judgement. Sometimes he felt as if he spent his entire life going against his better judgement.

  ‘It’s on your way home,’ Finbar had insisted while hailing a taxi.

  ‘Not unless the cabbie’s got less sense of direction than a roulette ball.’

  ‘C’mon! I owe you a drink from earlier this evening.’

  ‘Forget it.’ Knowing it was a mistake to ask, but unable to resist, Harry added, ‘Anyway, why do you want to call at a dive like the Danger?’

  ‘Listen, it’s just on the off-chance. I happened to mention to the girl I saw this morning that I’d be at the Danger tonight. It’s the first place that sprang to mind. She’s hooked herself up with another feller now, so ten to one she won’t be able to make it anyway. But let’s give it a try, eh?’

  Harry had known Finbar for only a few months, but he’d soon learned that his client never took ‘no’ for an answer. After five years of separation from his wife and persistent demands for a divorce, Finbar was at last about to get his own way. Sinead Rogan, a strong Catholic, had withheld her consent for as long as the law allowed. Now she had no choice, she had evidently resolved to take him for every penny he had. Harry could understand her bitterness. For Finbar, adultery was a hobby - a habit, almost - rather than a vice or guilty secret. He had no more conscience than a one-armed bandit. Yet Harry could not help liking the man. He was a good companion; more than an acquaintance, if not quit
e a firm friend.

  ‘Have you no shame?’ he asked, already knowing the answer.

  Finbar chuckled. Earlier, he’d admitted to Gilfillan that his studio was handsomely insured, almost daring the policeman to make of that what he would. He had more reason to celebrate, it seemed, than to mourn.

  Harry climbed with resignation into the back seat of the cab. ‘And what about Melissa? You’ve only been going out with her a matter of weeks.’

  ‘What the eyes don’t see.’

  Finbar leaned forward to tell the driver his destination, then glanced back over his shoulder and gave a devilish wink. Harry found it easy at that moment to imagine his client with cloven hooves and forked tail.

  ‘Tell you something, Harry - I could murder a pint.’

  ‘One of these days you’ll end up murdered yourself.’

  ‘If so, I wouldn’t back your mate Gilfillan to track the culprit down. Jases, I feel like I’ve been through the third degree. And I’m the blessed victim!’

  The police questioning had continued long after the fire was finally doused. Harry could read Gilfillan’s mind. Finbar had probably tattooed half the inmates in Walton Jail in his time; it did not take too much prejudice to guess that a man who decorated villains’ flesh might have made ugly enemies over the years. Yet Finbar had been adamant; no one had threatened him or sworn revenge. He couldn’t think who might have wanted to burn down his studio. The fire, he maintained, must have been started by youngsters careless of the identity of the people whose property they sought to destroy.

  Harry could see Gilfillan didn’t believe what he was being told. But Finbar’s complex love life had no doubt schooled him in the art of telling careful lies. If he had guessed who was responsible for the arson, he was keeping it to himself and no amount of nagging would make him say more than he wished. Harry wondered if a drop more alcohol might loosen his client’s tongue. In any case, he always found Finbar’s company exhilarating. With him around, there was always the chance that something extraordinary would happen; perhaps that was the secret of his charm. So when the taxi arrived at the Danger, Harry found himself clambering out as well.