A two-drawer filing cabinet stood next to the desk. Its key was in the lock. Harry opened it and rummaged through the suspensions, each of which held a red file of the kind Miller favoured. Every file and suspension was neatly marked: bank statements, building society correspondence, savings certificates, long-term investment, bills and all the rest. Nothing of interest there, he thought. The real question was: where was the one marked CAROLE JEFFRIES?
He checked through the cabinet a second time and looked to see if anything might have slipped to the bottom, but again he drew a blank. There was, however, at the back of the lower drawer, one suspension that bore no name tag and contained no file. He scratched his head. It was impossible to believe that a well-organised man like Ernest Miller would have used one more suspension than was absolutely necessary.
And all too easy to believe that last night’s intruder had searched here for the file on the Sefton Park Strangling and stolen it to conceal facts which revealed that he, rather than Edwin Smith, had murdered Carole Jeffries.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Bloody bad news,’ said Jim Crusoe the next morning when Harry told him about Miller’s death. He gazed at the heavens as if in reproach. ‘If only you’d managed to get him to sign his bloody will, we’d be quids in. Normally we have to wait years to convert a loss leader on the fee for a will into profit on a probate.’
‘I don’t think Ernest Miller meant to be inconsiderate. I’m sure he would have preferred to hang on for a while himself.’
‘And now the bloody government will get the lot.’ Jim shook his head and then a thought occurred to him. ‘No suspicious circumstances, are there?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I’ve learned from experience that you and sudden death seem to go hand in hand. Being your partner has probably doubled the cost of my life insurance.’
‘As a matter of fact, the whole business bothers me.’ No exaggeration, this: thinking about Miller’s death, and that of Carole Jeffries, had kept him awake for half the previous night. ‘You see, it goes back thirty years…’
‘For God’s sake,’ Jim interrupted, ‘you haven’t got time now to give me a history lesson. Tell me later on today. Have you forgotten you’re due back in court in half an hour? What’s the latest on the sergeant, by the way?’
‘Still in intensive care, last I heard. One thing’s for certain, he won’t be finishing his evidence this morning.’
‘And the chances of a settlement offer even the Walters can’t refuse?’
‘Improving with every hour. The police authority must be desperate to put an end to it all.’
Jim clapped him on the back. ‘Go for it, then. And this time make sure that Kevin doesn’t keel over until the money’s safely in the bank.’
Patrick Vaulkhard and the Walters were waiting for him when he arrived at the court building. Jeannie was at her most glamorous: he guessed she had been up since the early hours applying the make-up in readiness for a triumphant press conference later in the day.
‘So, what’s the latest?’ he asked. ‘Are they ready to cough up?’
‘Let’s wait and see,’ said Vaulkhard. ‘I don’t intend to make the first move this morning. The police are under pressure: we’re ready to proceed. Let them make the running.’
‘We’re going to make ’em sweat,’ confirmed Kevin. In his wife’s presence, he seemed to need to assert his identity, to make it clear that he was relishing the occasion.
Jeannie nudged Harry in the ribs. ‘Uh-oh. The Gnome’s coming over here.’
She had thus christened the barrister representing the police authority and Harry had to admit the truth in her gibe. Gordon Summerbee was a tubby man with a red moustache and beard who looked as though he was born to hold a fishing line and squint out over a herbaceous border.
‘Patrick,’ he said, ‘I wonder if we might have a word?’
As the two barristers moved off into a corner, Kevin gave Harry a wink. ‘What d’you reckon?’
‘Fingers crossed.’
‘Whatever they offer,’ said Jeannie, ‘it can never be enough. Not after what my Kevin’s been through.’
She gave her husband a smile, intended to be fond, which put Harry in mind of a miser beaming at his gold.
Kevin nodded vigorously and said, ‘Y’know, I could never have made it without Jeannie.’
His wife preened, but did not forget to utter the sentiment she always expressed in her interviews. ‘I’ve only done what any woman would do in the same terrible circumstances.’
She shrugged her overcoat off her shoulders and passed it to Harry, who in her presence often felt like a courtier. Today she was dressed for the photographers, wearing a tight black jersey
and a microscopic skirt which revealed seemingly endless legs. Her impressive bosom bore in extravagant orange stitching the legend WALTERGATE — MY KEV WAS INNOCENT.
Her Kev said excitedly, ‘Bugger me, that was quick. He’s coming back already.’
Harry could tell it was good news. Vaulkhard was walking towards them with a sportsman’s swagger.
‘Well?’ demanded Jeannie. ‘What have they said?’
‘The authority is now willing to make a much improved offer.’
‘So I should bloody well hope,’ said Kevin.
‘How much?’ asked his wife.
‘You need to consider their proposal with care.’
The way he’s dragging it out, thought Harry, it must be well into six figures.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Jeannie impatiently.
Vaulkhard named the sum on offer. It was far more than Harry had expected, more even than he had hoped for in his most optimistic moments.
Kevin whistled. ‘That’s more like it!’
‘Shut up,’ Jeannie snapped. She addressed Vaulkhard. ‘We want another thirty thousand.’
The foxy features twitched. ‘I really would advise…’
‘Another thirty,’ she repeated, ‘or we go back into court.’
Vaulkhard looked at her and then at her husband. ‘If they withdraw the offer…’
‘They won’t withdraw it,’ said Jeannie. ‘Go back and tell them we fight on unless they decide to be more realistic.’
A spasm of uncertainty creased Kevin’s face. He turned to Harry. ‘What d’you think?’
‘It’s a gamble, Kevin, but if you’re willing to…’
‘Listen,’ cut in Jeannie. ‘We’ve bloody gambled all the way along the line. Now we’ve got them in a corner and I’m betting they’ll cave in.’
‘It’s your decision,’ said Vaulkhard sombrely.
‘Too bloody right,’ she said.
Chewing his lower lip, Kevin said, ‘Look, love…’
‘What are you waiting for?’ she demanded of the barrister. ‘Go on. Put it to them.’
‘Very well.’
As Vaulkhard walked back to where Summerbee and his cohorts were standing, Kevin swore softly.
‘Jeannie, if you fuck this up…’
‘Listen. You’d still be sewing sodding mailbags if it wasn’t for me. Now all you need do is keep your trap shut and wait for the busies to cave in.’
As they bickered, Harry’s thoughts strayed. What would the late Edwin Smith not have given for a last taste of freedom, he wondered, let alone the prospect of financial recompense?
A new note of urgency in Jeannie’s voice brought him back to the here and now. ‘Look, Paddy’s on his way back!’
Harry needed merely to glance at the barrister to know that the miracle had occurred. Vaulkhard had on his face an uncharacteristic expression of wonder, like that of a child at Christmas time.
‘Well, what did they say?’ called Jeannie. ‘Don’t keep us in suspense!’