‘I must congratulate you, Jeannie, on your eye for a bargaining position.’
‘You mean,’ demanded Kevin, who always wanted things spelled out, ‘the busies have actually agreed to the extra thirty?’
‘Every penny.’
The couple stared at each other, then each let out a whoop of joy that had the tabloid hacks a few yards away scrambling for their pencils and notebooks. But Jeannie, the true professional, composed herself within seconds.
‘It’s a lot of money,’ she said in a grave tone, ‘but cash can never compensate for what we have suffered.’
She was right, reflected Harry. Cash could not redress every wrong. What of Edwin Smith, he thought again, what if there was indeed a chance to clear his name? In this case money genuinely did not matter. Only if the real murderer of Carole Jeffries was identified could justice finally be seen to be done.
The Walters’ jubilant press conference over and done with, Harry walked back to the office with Ronald Sou. As usual, the clerk did not encourage conversation: he could make the average Trappist seem like a chatterbox. Harry found himself wondering what Ronald really made of their clients. The only clue he had was the quirk of Ronald’s lips when Jeannie told the man from The Sun that the court case had not been about money, but a matter of principle.
He had to admit that it was a perfect outcome for Crusoe and Devlin as well. Even on legal aid rates, the fees would smooth the wrinkled brow of their accountant for a long time to come. The only snag was that Jim would want to invest the proceeds in more information technology, while Harry would have been content with a quill pen and a few scraps of vellum. At present the only information he was anxious for was whatever Ernest Miller had kept in the missing red file.
When they reached New Commodities House, he headed straight for his office. Lying where he had left it on his desk was Cyril Tweats’ file for Edwin Smith. He picked it up and tucked it under his arm. He had finally convinced himself that the burglary here and the disappearance of Miller’s papers were no coincidence. The file was best kept in a safe place. The sooner he returned it to the Land of the Dead, the better.
Jim poked his head around the door. ‘The conquering hero!’
‘You’ve heard?’
‘Ronald has just given me the glad tidings. He was beside himself with excitement, by which I mean he gave me a half-smile. How about a celebration drink at lunchtime?’
‘Love to.’ He gestured to the file under his arm. ‘And I’ll tell you the story of Cyril Tweats’ unluckiest client.’
With that he set off for the Pierhead. Crossing the Strand, he saw Kim Lawrence fifty yards ahead of him and put on a spurt to catch her up.
‘Not in court this morning?’
She seemed genuinely pleased to see him. ‘I’ve done my duty. A number of my clients were charged with breach of the peace. They’re anti-nuclear campaigners, and they threw eggs at a junior industry minister who won’t be content until even our tap water is radioactive.’
‘Is every case a crusade with you?’
She gave him a long look. ‘I hope so. And besides, you don’t do so badly yourself. The place was buzzing with news of the Waltergate settlement. Well done.’
She was not a woman who gave out compliments like calling cards and he felt himself blushing. Quickly, he said, ‘Patrick Vaulkhard handled the negotiations. I took a back seat.’
‘He’s the best man for a case like that, but I know you were living with it night and day long before he was briefed.’
They reached the hut on the Pierhead and he unlocked the door which led to Jock’s underground domain. ‘What brings you here? Not on your way to the Land of the Dead, by any chance?’
‘I want to collect some files from archive,’ she said, following him down the flight of stairs. ‘I could have waited for the messenger to come round this afternoon or sent my articled clerk Adrian out — it’s become a second home to him anyway, since Jock let him practise the saxophone here — but I need the exercise.’
He appraised her lean figure and thought about saying that she didn’t look in need of exercise, but he had the feeling that she was not a woman who would respond to such a clumsy line of chat. Instead, as they walked past the old deserted ballroom, he said, ‘I’m glad you’re here. I’m beginning to feel it’s not safe for me to wander around on my own. Since we last spoke, my office has been burgled and I’ve stumbled across the body of a client of mine.’
‘I thought that was par for the course with Harry Devlin. The talk round the courts is that you’ve been mixed up with as many mysterious deaths as Inspector Morse. You’re not by any chance a fan of opera?’
‘Hate it. I don’t mind some of the tunes but I simply can’t follow the lyrics. As for my own reputation, such as it is, blame my curiosity. It usually gets the better of me — although that isn’t so hard to do. You remember I mentioned the Sefton Park Strangling to you? Ernest Miller, the man who interested me in the case, is dead. I’m more than ever convinced that Edwin Smith, who was found guilty, did not kill the girl. And whoever broke into my office went through all my papers but took nothing.’
A faint smile slid across her face. ‘But apart from all that, nothing much has been happening? Who were your burglars, undercover investigators from the Legal Aid Board?’
‘Can’t have been, they didn’t leave any forms behind for me to fill it. No, my bet is, the intruder was searching for Cyril Tweats’ old file on the case.’ He patted the folder under his arm. ‘I’ve decided to bring it back here, where it’s out of harm’s way.’
‘So you’re sure Miller was on to something?’
‘He was eccentric, perhaps, but no fool. Incidentally, the good news is that his heart turned out to be in the right place. He didn’t have any family, so he instructed me to draw up a will leaving everything he had to MOJO.’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘The bad news is, he died before he got round to signing it.’
Kim Lawrence stared at him for a moment, then shook her head and swore. ‘So who gets the money?’
‘The Crown, presumably. And before you say anything, I know the national finances are in a poor way, but I don’t think the Chancellor of the Exchequer is implicated in Miller’s death.’
They turned into the archivist’s room and Harry said, ‘Hello, Jock. I have something for you.’
The little Scot beamed with delight as he was handed the file. ‘You’re not returning the old file you took away the other day, by any chance? Splendid, absolutely splendid! So often I have to chase people up. They forget to send things back here, where they belong.’
‘This is the best place for the file of Mr Edwin Smith. Look after it, though. Someone out there would dearly love to get his hands on it.’
‘Harry’s involved in another of his mysteries,’ explained Kim.
‘So I gather,’ said Jock. ‘Come on, for Heaven’s sake, you must tell us the whole story.’
‘It will take a while,’ warned Harry.
‘So much the better,’ said Kim. ‘Anything to put off the evil hour when I have to return my phone calls.’
‘You’re a woman after my own heart. Okay, here goes.’
He recounted at length how Miller had first interested him in the Sefton Park case, his discovery of the body and his growing suspicion that the burglary of his office was no coincidence. When he had finished, Jock scratched his bald head in bewilderment.
‘What on earth makes you think all these incidents are connected?’
‘Come on,’ said Kim. ‘Harry’s a noted amateur sleuth. You ought to trust his detective instinct.’
Jock gestured to an old paperback of The Big Sleep nestling up to his visual display unit. ‘See that? One of my favourite shamuses. I always fancied being a private investigator myself. Tell you what, why don’t you tell us your own ideas and we’ll let you have our theories?’
‘Sounds like foul play to me,’ said Kim. ‘Miller tried his hand at blackmail and was murdered for his pains.’