Cyril tutted. ‘My dear fellow, I can hardly be expected to recall the Christian name of the spouse of an employee who worked for me donkey’s years ago. And yet, as it happens, you may just be right. The two of them were Germans, of course, though I did not hold that against them. Now I come to think of it, I believe he changed his name from Mueller.’ Cyril beamed at his feat of memory. ‘Yes, I’m sure that was his name. Ernst Mueller, who became Ernest Miller. Is that the chap you’re asking about?’
Chapter Eleven
Harry stared at Cyril Tweats. ‘So Marlene Miller was your confidential secretary and did all the typing on the Smith file? Tell me, how long did she work for you afterwards?’
Cyril was genial in his condescension. ‘You are flitting about today. One minute you’re immersed in a case that closed thirty years ago, the next you’re getting excited about my typing arrangements. Really, Harry, is it possible you may be suffering from over-tiredness?’
‘Please, Cyril, I’m interested.’
Cyril beamed again to show that he was willing to humour him. ‘I should say she stayed with me until about twelve years ago. Then another firm offered more money. I sensed she was reluctant to go, kept hoping I would increase my offer. But I have my principles.’
Glancing at the sumptuous furnishings all around, Harry had to admit that Cyril’s principles had kept him in a style to which many would be glad to become accustomed.
‘Did you know Marlene had died?’
Cyril rubbed his chin. ‘I believe I did hear that. I think her husband let one of the girls in the office know.’
‘You never met him?’
‘I always made it a rule never to fraternise with my staff or their families,’ said Cyril sternly. ‘I regard it as a basic tenet of good management. One must keep one’s distance. Otherwise standards start to slip. Another jaffa cake?’
‘Did she ever speak of him?’
‘Possibly. I never knew a woman yet who didn’t indulge her taste in gossip — and usually at the most inconvenient time. But it will have washed over me, I’m afraid. I used to find that the occasional “Oh really?” sufficed as a courtesy whenever one of my girls was chattering about her loved ones. But do tell me — why the sudden interest in the woman who worked on this file?’
‘I’ve met Mrs Miller’s widowed husband. He’s the person who persuaded me to take an interest in the Sefton Park case. And thanks to you, I now know why he was so convinced Edwin Smith was innocent. His wife must have told him about the retraction.’
Cyril brushed the retraction away as if swatting a fly. ‘My dear Harry, I do feel you are paying far too much attention to a brief episode in a lengthy case. After all, Smith did plead guilty at trial.’
‘On Hugo Kellerman’s advice?’
‘Of course. It was plainly the right thing to do. Kellerman — he died of a coronary a few years ago, God rest his soul, too many dinners at Lincoln’s Inn, I suppose — had no doubt. When Smith asked about the chances of an acquittal, he said, “You’re pissing in the wind, Smithy, simply pissing in the wind”’. Cyril smiled in reminiscence. ‘He didn’t mince words, Hugo didn’t. The Bar is the poorer for his passing.’
Harry could imagine that Cyril would have instructed a barrister who was a kindred spirit. Already he could picture Kellerman: a ruddy-faced blusterer with a technique of persuasion as subtle as that of a timeshare salesman.
‘So Edwin surrendered?’
‘He saw reason,’ corrected Cyril with a sweet smile. The old rascal had charm, Harry reflected. With a hide so thick, he should have gone into politics. He had a flair for presenting the acceptable face of incompetence and expecting it to be kissed.
‘And after sentence was passed, he committed suicide.’
‘He’d made one previous attempt, as I imagine you are aware, before the parliamentary vote to abolish the death penalty.’
‘A vote that did no good for Edwin.’
‘It did no good for all those people over the past thirty years whose killers might have been deterred by the prospect of the rope,’ said Cyril, suddenly stern. ‘But you’re right. Edwin Smith was no psychopath. He was bad, but not mad: a pitiful individual, wholly lacking in backbone. Yet I believe he was genuinely overcome by remorse for what he had done. When the state was ready to spare his life, he took what he thought was the honourable course. And I could respect him for that.’
Harry thought that in days gone by Cyril would have been the first to pass a pearl-handled revolver to a disgraced colleague and suggest that he pop next door to the library and do the decent thing. With an effort, he subdued his rising temper and said, ‘So you still believe he was guilty?’
Cyril smiled again. ‘Oh yes. As sure as I am sitting here, sipping tea and eating more biscuits than are good for me. Take it from me, Harry, for his terrible crime, young Edwin Smith certainly deserved to die.’
After saying goodbye, Harry sat in his car for a few minutes, mulling over what Cyril Tweats had told him. He found it was easy to discount the views of Cyril and Hugo Kellerman about their client’s guilt and at last he understood why Ernest Miller had been equally convinced that Smith’s confession was likely to have been false. One mystery, at least, had been solved. No doubt Marlene had discussed the case avidly with her husband and now, in his retirement, he had decided to poke around.
But in poking around, would he find that the embers of the Carole Jeffries case were far from dead? Harry felt a surge of anxiety on Miller’s behalf. The old man was playing with fire. He resolved to talk to Miller again and find out for certain exactly what he had learned.
The will provided at least a thin excuse for making a weekend call. Jim had kept his promise and had the document typed up before close of business on Friday evening. Harry drove through the quiet city centre streets back to his office and collected it, together with Miller’s red document folder, before setting off for Everton.
The journey took Harry to a maze of back-to-back houses. Every other Saturday from August to May the streets in this part of the city were thronged with supporters making their way to the match. It was a place of fierce loyalties, home to many of its inhabitants from cradle to grave, and yet Harry felt surprised that a man like Miller had stayed here so long. He was not a native of Liverpool and during his working life must have earned good money, with a useful second income whilst his wife was alive. According to the information he had given Harry, he was comfortably off, so why had he not moved upmarket? Had he simply grown accustomed to this place, too set in his ways to contemplate a change — or had the close ties that still kept this community together bound in even such an awkward cuss as Ernest Miller?
Miller’s house stood at the end of Mole Street and commanded a view of an iron foundry and a gasworks. The lace curtains at the windows were in need of a wash and the door had probably not been painted since the Brill Brothers were in the charts. In contrast, the step outside the house next door shone smugly, as if it enjoyed a through scrub once each day. As he parked, Harry noticed a twitching of the neighbour’s curtains. He guessed Ernest Miller seldom had visitors and the arrival of an MG was cause for curiosity.
He pressed the bell and heard its muffled ringing inside. No answer. He tried again with equal lack of response and was about to turn back to his car when the door of the adjoining house opened. A woman of about sixty with impossibly bright auburn hair peered at him like an ornithologist studying a rare species.
‘After Ernie, are you?’
‘I seem to be out of luck. Any idea when he’ll be back?’
‘I can’t understand it. He’s not taken his milk in today, or his News Of The World.’
Puzzled, Harry glanced at Miller’s empty doorstep and letter box. The woman explained, ‘A couple of kids pinched the bottles and the newspaper this morning. They were out of sight before I could get to my front door, the little monkeys. Only seven or eight, they were. If I was their mum, I’d give ’em a good hiding. It’ll be cars they’re stealing next and then who knows what will happen?’