Waterloo Sunset Page 3

  He couldn’t settle to the chore of ploughing through the Borth file. At least he had an excuse. He sneaked another glance at the crumpled announcement of his death. The print and layout resembled a facsimile clipping from the Liverpool Echo. Someone had taken the trouble to make it look like the real thing.

  Might as well dig out the newspaper for comparison. He’d bought an early edition on his way back from court. The vendor had bellowed about a body on a beach, but Harry’s mind was elsewhere. He was lost in wonder that he’d talked the magistrates into giving that career car thief a community sentence. He couldn’t claim too much credit; the lad had the authorities’ zealous pursuit of law and order to thank. The prisons were crammed to the rafters with recidivists paid to play Scrabble as a means of keeping the peace, so there was no room for anyone else. Chances were, his client was halfway home to Runcorn now, scattering traffic cones on Speke Boulevard in someone else’s Saab.

  He pulled the Echo out of his briefcase and thumbed through the classified advertisements. The In Memoriam section ran to six columns of sorrow, without mention of his name. Of course not, it would be absurd. Today wasn’t even Midsummer’s Eve.

  As he folded up the newspaper, the front page headline screamed at him.

  WOMAN MURDERED AT WATERLOO.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Some men were changed by murder, some men were suspected of murder, for some men murder was all in a day’s work. With Harry Devlin, it was a mixture of the three. Years ago, his wife Liz had been stabbed to death and he’d stayed in the frame until he uncovered the truth. Since then, murder’s cruel finality had obsessed him. Whatever Wayne Saxelby said, even twenty years in the legal profession hadn’t killed off his yearning for justice. More than once, he’d come face to face with murderers, determined to confront them with their guilt. But he’d made himself a promise – leave detection to the detectives. He’d only bought the Echo to find out about this goal-hungry Italian striker the Reds had signed. The news story was a distraction. Yet he had to read it, couldn’t help himself.

  The remains of a young woman had been discovered on the beach at Waterloo, just up the coast. Someone walking a dog at daybreak had stumbled across the body and raised the alarm. A detective superintendent described the crime as shocking and savage and said it was vital for the perpetrator to be caught before he struck again. He appealed for anyone in the vicinity of the beach the previous evening to come forward as a matter of urgency. It was too early, he said, to rule out the possibility that this death was linked to the killing of Denise Onuoha.

  Denise came from New Brighton on the other side of the Mersey. A seaside resort that for years struggled to compete with Margate, let alone Marbella. First, the Tower was burnt down, then the pier went, finally they ripped out the open air pool that Harry and his mates swam in as kids. Lately New Brighton had checked in for regeneration therapy, but Denise’s murder hadn’t done any favours for its tourist appeal. Her remains were discovered on a tide-washed strip of beach below Egremont Promenade. There was enough left to make it clear that she hadn’t died of natural causes.

  In the absence of a quick arrest, the murder was soon relegated to a line among reports of bust-ups in the city council. The snap of Denise was fuzzy and out of date, but Harry recalled a pretty, dark-haired girl in school blouse and blazer with buck teeth and the eager-to-please smile of a contestant in a talent show. She was eighteen years old and said to have dreamt of a career on the catwalk. The reports spoke of her as bubbly and fun-loving, a piece of journalese that covered a multitude of sins.

  Harry had heard gossip about the Onuoha case over at The Latte of the Law, a swish café opposite the courts in Derby Square. Rumour merchants insisted that Denise’s body had been mutilated in some bizarre fashion, prompting prurient speculation over countless espressos and blueberry muffins. What astonished Harry was that the full story hadn’t leaked out. Some insider usually talked. Murder wasn’t unknown in Liverpool, for all the statistics proving how safe the city was compared to supposed havens of tranquillity. The police would never keep things so tight without a good reason. There must be something out of the ordinary about the killing of Denise Onuoha.

  And now another young woman had been found dead on a beach.

  Another life wasted, another corpse left to moulder in the wet and wind. At the mercy of the sea, prey to tiny creatures with cruel appetites.

  How could you do that to a fellow human being? He would never understand.

  The story in the Echo ran to four terse paragraphs; the media conference must have finished minutes before the early edition went to press. Harry knew that if the police were unsure of a connection with the Onuoha case, they would never risk sparking hysteria. Something must link the killings; perhaps the murderer had a particular signature. Any time now, the city would echo with the newspaper vendors’ hoarse cry.

  ‘Serial killer on the loose!’

  And people walking the streets would be shocked and frightened, but excited too.

  Read all about it…who could resist?

  ‘Serial killer on the loose!’

  ‘Any preferences for funeral arrangements?’ Jim poked his head round the door to say goodnight. ‘Flowers, donations? Just in case, I mean?’

  ‘Piss off,’ Harry said amiably.

  ‘Remember, old son. That which doesn’t kill us simply postpones the inevitable.’ Jim nodded towards the Borth file. ‘Doing plenty of spadework for the inquest, then?’

  ‘I like to be prepared.’

  ‘Liar. I suppose you want to make a good impression in front of the coroner?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come on, Harry. You fancy the pants off her, don’t you?’

  ‘Ceri Hussain?’

  Jim tapped the side of his nose. ‘I’m not blaming you. Very attractive woman.’

  ‘She’s the coroner!’

  ‘No need to sound so indignant. Anyone would think I accused you of peering up the Queen’s skirt. I wasn’t the only one who saw you sloping off to the bar with her after that Legal Group meeting at the Adelphi.’

  ‘We had a quick drink, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Mind, she’s a bit intense. You’d be good for her.’

  ‘As light relief?’

  ‘Why not? She spends her working life deciding how people came to die. Can’t be a barrel of laughs.’

  ‘The drink was a one-off. I didn’t even ask for her phone number.’

  ‘She’s not long since lost her husband.’ Jim’s grin wavered for a moment. He knew about coping with the death of a spouse. Though his wife, unlike Harry’s, and Ceri’s husband, had died of natural causes. ‘Makes sense to take it slowly.’

  ‘I’m not taking it any way. This is just your fevered imagination.’

  Jim smirked. ‘Suit yourself.’

  Harry put up two fingers as the door swung behind his partner. Nothing pleased him more than to see Jim putting the ravages of bereavement behind him. Carmel was doing him good. But his relentless affability was becoming a pain.

  He switched off his computer and wandered to the window. Across the road loomed the Liver Building, its twin clock towers topped by giant birds resembling malevolent cormorants, each clutching a sprig of seaweed in its beak. One faced out to sea, supposedly watching for sailors’ safe return, the other gazed towards the city, checking to see whether the pubs were open. People said that if ever the Liver Birds were to mate and fly away, Liverpool would cease to exist. Just as well they kept their backs turned to each other.

  A faint noise from outside caught his ear. The grumble of vacuum cleaners had long since died down. He strained to listen. Was someone sobbing?

  He poked his head out and looked up and down the corridor. The air was heavy with the tang of floor polish, pungent enough to make your eyes water. No one was in sight. He listened.

  Then it came again. A low, insistent sound. A young woman crying, he was sure of it. To both left and right, the corridor zig
zagged drunkenly, an elaborate designer touch to justify high rents. The idea was to relieve the monotony of long straight lines, so at regular intervals the corridors veered around kitchen areas, walk-in cupboards and spaces housing photocopiers, laser printers and other essentials of modern office life. As a result, you couldn’t see far whichever way you looked.

  The woman must be one of the night cleaners. Harry had glimpsed several of them since arriving here, a ghostly troop who wielded their mops like weapons. Often they chatted together in a foreign language he didn’t recognise. The sensible thing was to keep his distance. Or better still, sneak off in the other direction and get away for the night. Let her sort herself out, whoever she was. But she might be in pain. If someone had hurt her…

  He took a few steps in the direction of the lifts and called softly, ‘Are you all right?’

  Stupid question, but he didn’t know what else to say.

  Silence.

  ‘It’s Harry Devlin. What’s the matter?’

  He could hear sniffling, but she didn’t reply. With a couple of strides, he rounded the bend in the corridor. The door to the kitchen was open. He moved forward, so that he could look into the room.

  A young woman he’d never seen before was standing between the sink and the water cooler. He wasn’t sure he’d ever encountered anyone looking quite so forlorn. She had short blonde hair, a pale tear-stained face and a handkerchief bunched in a small fist. It was as if misery had washed all the colour out of her. Even her linen overall was plain white, except for three tiny blue Cs on the breast. He recognised the logo: Culture City Cleaners.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Nothing.’ A local accent, for once. ‘I’m fine.’

  He thrust his hands in his pockets. At least the woman in white had answered. It was a start.

  ‘Hey, I don’t think so.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you. It’s nothing, believe me.’

  He took another pace towards her. If nothing else, twenty years in the Liverpool courts had taught him not to fret about stating the obvious.

  ‘You’re upset.’

  She dipped her head. Her hair was a mess of tangles. Dark roots showed.

  ‘I cry easily.’

  ‘Can I make you a cup of tea? It usually helps.’

  A pause. ‘You can’t help, believe me.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘I have to go!’

  She brushed past him and hurried down the corridor, sandals clacking on the wood-block floor. He watched until she disappeared out of sight, leaving a scent of room freshener in the air. A tang of cinnamon to remember her by.

  The ground level of John Newton House was deserted. From the lift, Harry saw the welcome desk was vacant, the bank of CCTV screens unwatched. The only hint of 24/7 security was the blinking red eye of the alarm. The plasma screen was blank and the pan pipes had fallen silent. All he could hear was a low electric hum and the eternal gush of the stainless steel waterfall. Black leather tub chairs formed a crescent facing the lifts. He’d never seen anyone sitting in them. Prints of modern artworks covered the walls, frantic splashes of red and yellow and green. With the interior lights dimmed, the leaves of giant palms cast spiky shadows. Through the curtain of foliage he glimpsed the world beyond the locked double doors. The Strand was a blinding pool of light.

  He stepped into the foyer. The carpet smelt new, its soft clutch was like quicksand. The desk was light Scandinavian wood, vast enough to make a colossus of industry feel like a midget. On the wall, a shiny brass plaque listed the three small businesses resident in John Newton House. An image flickering on the surveillance screens caught his eye. He sneaked behind the desk to take a closer look.

  One camera was trained on the entrance to the underground car park. The developers had carved it out of an ancient basement and only the priciest apartments in the building came with the right to a space, though until they were all sold there was room to spare. The BMW belonged to Wayne Saxelby; the only surprise was its lack of personalised number plates. But Harry focused on a sporty yellow Mercedes. Or rather, the woman clambering out of the driver’s seat and fiddling in her bag for a key.

  Juliet May.

  Juliet, here? Impossible.

  His heart thudded and he slammed his eyes shut, but when he opened them again, she was still in view. Striding towards the exit, bag tucked under her arm. Head held high, eyes gazing straight ahead. She moved like a woman who knew precisely where she was going. In the years since they’d last met, her red hair had been restyled and acquired blonde highlights, but it was Juliet, all right. The contours of her body were as familiar as if he’d embraced her only yesterday. In his mind he heard her gasps and cries when they were together in bed and she let herself go.

  He hurried to the back door and let himself out into the courtyard. The brightness dazzled him and he shaded his eyes. The exit door from the car park swung open and Juliet May emerged. When she saw him, she stopped in her tracks and did an extravagant double take. Yet her gaze was steady, as if she wasn’t in truth so surprised to see him.

  ‘Harry.’ He’d always loved her voice, cool and smooth as the touch of her skin. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  He nodded, not sure what to say. She looked different somehow, and it wasn’t just her new haircut. The lips, that was it. They were bigger than when he’d last kissed her, as if some cosmetic surgeon had got carried away with the collagen implants. Why had she bothered?

  ‘I suppose it was only a question of time,’ she murmured.

  ‘We’ve moved our office here. The bulldozers have flattened Fenwick Court.’

  ‘I saw your firm’s name on the sign at reception.’

  ‘You’re visiting someone?’

  Her smile tantalised. ‘No, you and I are neighbours.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I live here, of course.’

  His heart missed a beat. ‘In one of the flats?’

  ‘What would you expect, the car park? I’m in one of the penthouses on the top floor. There’s a balcony, with wonderful views. Sometimes I sit out in St Nick’s Gardens, when they aren’t packed with office girls eating their sandwiches. But it’s not the same as lazing high above the city. I need to find time for a bit of sunbathing. Want to know my guilty secret? My tan comes courtesy of the sun centre in Rumford Street.’

  She pretended to sniff with self-pity. She was slimmer than ever; at a distance, she might have passed for thirty. He didn’t know much about fashion, but he guessed the grey business suit and matching handbag were her favourite, Donna Karan. And she was talking rapidly, not letting him get a word in edgeways. A tactic he recognised, to buy time while she gathered her thoughts. Not that he wanted to get a word in edgeways. It was enough to drink in the sight of her. Better take care to avoid intoxication.

  ‘I heard about you and Casper.’

  He didn’t say he was sorry her marriage had broken up; she wouldn’t have believed him. Her ex-husband was an entrepreneur whose charity fundraising made gossip columnists drool, and whose wealth had politicians queueing up to trade honours for donations to party funds. What nobody dared mention was how Casper May made his very first million. He was a hard man and people who got in his way found themselves crushed. Literally, since he retained an interest in a scrap-yard near the river. One business rival was rumoured to have been fed to a metal-shearing machine, though the official line was that he’d skipped to Spain to escape the taxman. By sleeping with Juliet, Harry had taken his life in his hands. The madness of lust, how else to explain it? Splitting up with her had saved his skin.

  ‘It was bound to happen. Didn’t you once tell me that yourself?’

  ‘You should have dumped him years ago.’

  ‘You know something, Harry? I never did dump him. There’s no point lying to you; he found this kid, a waitress working in a club he owns. Face of a fourteen-year-old and heart of a whore. After all his affairs, he did the one thing I never expected.
He fell in love.’

  ‘It won’t last.’

  Casper May must be mad too, he didn’t know when he was well off. Juliet studied him for a moment, before breaking into another smile that revealed perfect teeth. Even more perfect than before, like the delicate shape of her nose and the jaunty tilt of her breasts. She’d once told him that she didn’t intend to grow old without a fight.

  ‘You still wear that puzzled look. As well as permanently crooked neckwear.’

  She bent close to straighten his tie. Soft hair tickled his face. He shrugged away his embarrassment, prayed that his face wasn’t reddening.

  ‘People don’t change.’

  ‘That’s a depressing observation.’

  ‘True, though.’

  ‘Not of me, Harry. I’ve changed, haven’t you noticed?’

  ‘You look as good as ever,’ he said carefully.

  ‘You’re too polite. Nature’s had a bit of help, I don’t mind admitting. Though the lip implants didn’t work. An allergic reaction, I’m taking the clinic to court. But I wanted a new beginning. Please don’t be offended that I didn’t ask you to take up my case. Or handle the divorce.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have been a good idea.’

  ‘I mean, we did agree on a clean break.’

  He nodded. When the time came for them to part, they’d made a promise to each other. No recriminations and no further contact. At the time he’d feared he wouldn’t be able to honour the bargain. But he’d stayed strong.

  ‘Actually, I met someone else. His name is Jude. No jokes about obscurity, please. Only twenty-seven, but quite a hunk. He has a flat in the Colonnades, a stone’s throw from your place. We keep our own bolt-holes, though I spend nights there when he isn’t away working. He’s an actor, he’s had a few small parts in films.’

  ‘Am I allowed jokes about small parts?’

  She grinned. ‘Don’t provoke me. Come to think of it, you may have seen Jude in Coronation Street.’