‘What did she tell you?’
‘At first she was most reluctant to say anything, but when I pressed her, eventually she said that she was positive that it was impossible for Edwin Smith to have killed Carole Jeffries. When I asked why, all she would say was that she had not learned of that impossibility until after Smith’s own death. Hence her silence until now. Evidently I am the first person in whom she has confided the truth.’ Miller gave a satisfied smile. ‘So far she has been reluctant to divulge all she knows about the case but I am hopeful that soon she will be more forthcoming. I plan to meet her in the near future, but in the meantime I think you will agree that her remarks are as fascinating as they are significant.’
‘It all sounds vague to me. Are you sure she wasn’t simply telling you what she guessed you wanted to hear?’
‘Of course that thought has crossed my mind, but I am happy to trust my instinct. I do not doubt her sincerity.’
‘What of Ray Brill, then? Did he shed any light?’
Miller fiddled with the buttons of his coat. Harry could sniff evasion in the air. ‘He was unable to add anything of substance so far as the murder of Carole was concerned. Although he had seen her on the morning of the twenty-ninth of February, he then set off to London in the company of his singing partner, Ian Brill. There was no way that he could have been the culprit.’
Miller was choosing his words with even more care than usual. Taking a leaf out of Patrick Vaulkhard’s book, Harry decided that gentle flattery was the method most likely to draw him out. ‘You have obviously been busy. How many other people involved with the case are you hoping to see?’
‘Frankly, Mr Devlin, I am far from sure. Benny Frederick and Clive Doxey, of course, are in the public eye and easy enough to find, should I wish to do so. Renata proved by far the most elusive of those connected with the case: in the end, I had to resort to advertising in the local press. All I knew was her maiden name, but happily she saw my advert and called me up. It was much easier to trace the whereabouts of Kathleen Jeffries; Shirley, the girl with whom Carole worked; and Deysbrook, the policeman who headed the murder team. Fortunately, all of them still live in Merseyside.’
‘Did Kathleen ever remarry?’
Miller shook his head. ‘By all accounts, she has been something of a recluse since her husband died.’
‘And Shirley, what has happened to her?’
‘Thirty years ago, her surname was Basnett. She has changed it several times since then. I gather her third husband, a man named Titchard, died recently, leaving her a wealthy widow.’
‘So you might speak to each of them?’
‘As I say, I may decide to change my original plans. After all, I have established to my own satisfaction that Smith was not guilty of the crime. On reflection it would, perhaps, be hoping for too much if I were to press on with my investigation in the vain belief that I might be able to identify her killer.’
‘That’s not the way you were talking when we first met.’
‘Perhaps I became carried away with myself on that occasion. But I feel I shall probably rest content once I have met and talked in greater detail to Renata Grierson and ascertained precisely why she is so confident that Edwin Smith was no murderer.’ Miller smiled his infuriating smile and handed back the old Tweats file. ‘Thank you, Mr Devlin. I do appreciate your help.’
Harry found himself becoming irritated. At the precise moment when Miller had aroused his curiousity in the Sefton Park case, the old man was giving the impression that his own enthusiasm was beginning to wane. Or was he simply seeking to discourage further inquiries now that he had seen Cyril Tweats’ papers? Harry decided it was time to tease him.
He tucked the file under his arm and said casually, ‘Better look after this. I have the idea you aren’t the only person interested in it.’
He felt a childish sense of gratification to see Miller’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Oh really?’
‘My office was burgled during the night. Nothing seems to have been stolen and it crossed my mind that the intruder might have been looking for this.’
Miller stared at him. Harry had the impression that the old man’s mind was working rapidly, but when he spoke again, his manner was elaborately patronising. ‘A far-fetched notion, surely? You and I are the only people who knew of my interest in the file.’
‘Unless,’ said Harry gently, ‘you happened to mention it to Renata Grierson, say — or Ray Brill.’
‘Oh… I am sure I did not. No, Mr Devlin, you are mistaken. Depend upon it.’
But looking at Ernest Miller’s pensive expression, Harry suspected that he had made no mistake.
Chapter Ten
‘Is he dying?’ demanded Jim Crusoe an hour later.
‘Not as far as I’m aware,’ said Harry. ‘Miller is one of those characters who always seems to be ailing but the old bugger will probably outlive the lot of us.’
‘His will is straightforward. I can let you have the engrossment before the end of the day if you want.’
‘Thanks. I may want an excuse for another word with Mr Ernest Miller before too long. So if you can prepare it quickly, so much the better.’
‘No problem. Mind you, if we had the latest software, we could turn out any document based on the standard precedents in a matter of minutes at the press of a button. Do you know what we’re missing by not having the latest packages?’
‘No, but from the evangelical light in your eyes, I’m afraid you’re going to tell me.’
His partner sighed. ‘I suppose it’s no use asking if you’d be interested in seeing a rep offering a fifty per cent discount on promotional videos for solicitors’ firms?’
Harry pulled a face. ‘Only if my part will be taken by Richard Gere.’
‘Peter Falk might be better casting.’
‘And I suppose you’d want to be played by a young Sean Connery?’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Wait a minute. Who made this approach to you about the video?’
‘I received a mailshot a couple of days ago. The follow-up phone call came today. The company is Frederick’s, the people who made the management video-tape you vandalised.’
‘I told you, it was the only spare cassette I could find the other night. I wanted to record The Postman Always Rings Twice — the Lana Turner version, that is, from the days when the postman didn’t spend most of his time delivering computer-generated junk mail to impoverished businessmen. But I might just be willing to make amends. Pass me the literature and I’ll give it the once-over.’
Jim’s bushy eyebrows lifted. ‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this. Harry Devlin showing an interest in PR?’
‘I might even be interested in a meeting to see if they could do anything for us. On one condition.’
Jim gave him a suspicious look. ‘Go on.’
‘That we meet the organ grinder, rather than the monkey. I don’t want to waste time with a junior salesman. I’d like a presentation from Benny Frederick himself.’
Benny Frederick was away at a conference in London, the monkey told them, and although he would be willing to see any prospective new customer, he would not be available until after the weekend. Harry had to accept that as good enough, but he could not help chafing with impatience. His conversation with Miller had puzzled him and he could not push the Sefton Park case out of his mind.
He was at a loose end the following day and in the morning he wandered into town, telling himself that he needed to pick up a few odds and ends for the flat as well as food for the week ahead. Yet he did not really fool himself, and before long he found his way to the Bluecoat Gallery, where posters on the railings outside announced an exhibition of Snaps of the Sixties, photographs from the Beatles era taken by Benny Frederick. He paid his money and strolled inside.
A girl at the door handed him a leaflet which told him a little about Benny’s career. He had inherited his father’s studio as a young man in 1961 and had proved to be in the right business in the right place at the right time. His candid camera had caught pop singers, poets and comedians and made him as much of a star as most of them: what Patrick Lichfield was to high society and David Bailey to the world of fashion, Benny Frederick had been to the age of the Mersey Sound. As the city’s golden decade had drawn to a close, he had recognised the need to move with the times and his nose for commerce had prompted him to diversify into video, but it was for his photography that most people knew him best. With justice, Harry thought: despite the self-deprecation of the exhibition’s title, he could see that the photographs were the work of a talented artist. Benny could capture a personality in a single shot, whether it was Ringo Starr cavorting on Blackpool Beach, Ken Dodd clowning at the Empire or Bessie Braddock haranguing a heckler at an election meeting. Brian Epstein was pictured standing offstage at the Cavern, watching with rapt attention as a young John Lennon sang ‘Baby, It’s You’, but Harry was more intrigued by a photograph of a nightclub pianist. His hair was plastered with lotion and his lips curled as if he held his piano in contempt. The caption said simply WARREN HULL AT THE PEPPERMINT LOUNGE — 1961. So this was the Brill Brothers’ guru, yet another man who would later die violently and long before his time. But of Ray and Ian Brill themselves there was no sign.