A woman in a matron’s uniform approached them. ‘What is it, Lynsey?’
‘A Mr Devlin to see Vera, Matron,’ said the girl in a low tone, ‘He’s a solicitor.’
The matron turned to Harry and to his astonishment clasped his hands. ‘I am sorry you have had to call here in such circumstances, Mr Devlin. I suppose you came over here as soon as you heard the news. Is it about the will?’
‘The will?’
The woman paused and took in Harry’s baffled expression. ‘Oh, I am sorry. I thought Lynsey must have told you. I have some bad news, I am afraid. Vera passed away at half past two this afternoon.’
Chapter Eighteen
No more ‘if onlys’. The old resolution echoing in his head sounded hollower than ever to Harry as he drove away from Woolton. If only he had thought of Vera Smith first and called at the home in Woolton in the morning, she would at least have known the truth about her son before her death. According to matron, the old woman had complained of chest pains shortly before lunchtime and collapsed and died a few minutes later. Her heart had simply given out. There was no point in self-reproach, he knew, but he could not help it. If only he had thought first of the innocent rather than of those who might be guilty. If only.
By way of penance, he returned to Fenwick Court and picked up a dictating machine and an armful of files that Lucy had told him were screaming for attention. Challenging stuff like a row about a second-hand car and a couple of disputes between neighbours. Once at home, he made himself a boil-in-the-bag meal and weakened to the extent of dialling Ray Brill’s home number. No answer came and he had no excuse for not devoting the rest of the night to catching up on the backlog.
He fell into bed at one o’clock and awoke the next morning with his determination to keep looking into the Sefton Park case renewed. More than likely, Jock was right and there was no prospect of his ever being able to identify the strangler. But the least he could do for Vera Smith now was to see if it was possible to discover the man for whom her son had died in vain.
He was at the office by eight. The news vendor round the corner was flogging the latest instalment of Jeannie Walter’s heart-warming story of her triumph over the system and again he hurried by. Jim, a tediously virtuous early riser, was already at his desk. He seemed distracted when Harry wandered in to say hello.
‘Benny Frederick’s due here to talk about the marketing video this afternoon, right?’
‘What?’ Jim asked. ‘Oh, yes, that’s right. Four o’clock, I think we agreed.’ He paused and added, ‘And no cracks about Cinerama, please.’
After seeing clients during the morning, Harry set off up the coast to Southport, the resort where both Kathleen Jeffries and Ray Brill lived. It was inevitably a speculative trip. He had tried phoning Ray again without success and had decided against calling the dead girl’s mother to make an appointment. Everything he had learned about her convinced him that she would be reluctant to assist a stranger to revisit the past. He had the impression of a strong but private woman: only a direct personal approach would be likely to succeed.
Kathleen Jeffries lived in a part of the town populated mainly by the elderly affluent, a place of bridge parties and golf dinners, of immaculate lawns and Sunday-washed cars. It did not take him long to find her home in a small block of purpose-built flats set at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. He pressed the buzzer on the entryphone and a woman’s voice demanded, ‘Who is it?’ It was a stern voice, the voice of someone who thought that no news was likely to be good news.
‘Mrs Jeffries, my name’s Harry Devlin. I’m a solicitor from Liverpool and I would very much like to talk to you about your daughter.’
‘I have no daughter.’
Immediately he was on the wrong foot. ‘I mean — your late daughter Carole.’
After a moment’s hesitation the woman said, ‘And why should I wish to talk to you about Carole?’
‘Perhaps if you were willing to let me in…’
‘I should warn you, Mr Devlin, I have a dog. A very good guard dog who takes exception to nosey parkers.’
Well, he’d always known it would not be easy. ‘I promise you, Mrs Jeffries, I have no wish to distress you.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said the woman before he could continue. ‘In that case you will not be offended if I say I have no wish to rake up a past that has gone beyond recall.’
‘Mrs Jeffries, I wouldn’t trouble you without good reason, but I have important news for you. Edwin Smith, the man convicted of your daughter’s killing, was innocent.’
A long pause followed before Kathleen Jeffries said sharply, ‘That is absurd. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Believe me, I do. A woman has now given Smith an unbreakable alibi for the time of the murder.’
‘You seem to have overlooked that he confessed to the crime.’
‘His confession was false. Someone else strangled Carole. I am sure you would be anxious, perhaps more than anyone, for the true culprit to be found. There has been talk that there was another boyfriend in her life, someone other than the pop singer Ray Brill. I wondered if you might have any idea…’
‘This is an outrage!’ Even standing alone on her doorstep, he could feel the heat of her anger. ‘How dare you come here and talk such nonsense! I have no intention of discussing the matter with you any further. Now be off with you, or I shall call the police.’
One advantage of having acted on behalf of so many of life’s losers was that Harry had learned when to admit defeat. Quietly, he said, ‘Of course I will leave, if that is what you want, Mrs Jeffries, but I can assure you my only wish is for the truth to come out. Perhaps you’ll at least be willing to think it over. In the meantime, goodbye.’
She didn’t answer and reluctantly he trudged back to his car. He still wanted to talk to Kathleen Jeffries, but he was equally sure that he would make no headway for the time being. The loss of a daughter to murder and a husband to suicide would be enough to harden any heart and he would need to reconsider his tactics before having any chance of making a more fruitful approach to her.
Time to try Ray Brill. He jumped into the MG and set off for the centre of the resort. In one of the side streets behind the elegance of Lord Street’s shops was a clutch of large three-storey terraced dwellings, all of which had been converted into flats. The shabbiest was the one where the fallen star had landed. The salt wind from the sea had stripped much of the paint from the walls and the front garden was knee-high in brambles and bits of brick. A rusting supermarket trolley which lacked one of its wheels had come to rest on the path which led to the door.
Ray Brill’s name was next to the bell of the ground-floor flat. Harry rang twice long and loud, but no-one answered. Perhaps his quarry wasn’t even in town and his trip was going to be altogether wasted. He swore, but as he paused for breath the front door opened and a fat man in an anorak emerged.
‘Do you know where I might find Ray Brill?’
The man had the morose air of a chocoholic on a sugar-free diet. ‘No prizes for guessing, pal.’
‘I’m not very good at guessing.’
‘He’ll be chucking his money away in the arcades, if I know anything.’
‘Do you know which arcades he goes to?’
‘Try the places down at the front. I only wish I had the money to throw around like that,’ the man grumbled. ‘Chance would be a fine thing. Do you know how much my bloody ex-wife takes off me each week? Can you guess?’
Harry escaped before the fat man could tell him and drove to the promenade. Even out of season, the resort bustled and none of the amusement arcades was crying out for the lack of customers. A handful of truanting schoolkids and a clutch of unemployed teenagers he would have expected, but he also saw plenty of adults, middle-aged men and women wearing ancient coats and glazed expressions, pushing coins into slots with such singleness of mind that he felt sure that if a bomb exploded in the Floral Hall their eyelids would scarcely flicker.