In each place he visited, the flashing lights half-blinded him, but it was the noise that made his head begin to throb. Every arcade had its own incessant cacophony of weird electronic bleeps, cascading pennies and blazing guns. He watched the punters absorb the messages of the ever-changing liquid crystal displays which shone so brightly on the machines that enslaved them. Here people spoke a foreign language and followed severe commands from inhuman masters to nudge or hold, to wait for the fair play reel or to match the bar to earn a prize. They clutched at promises of big cash jackpots and a fresh pack of cards every time, digging deep in threadbare pockets for the privilege. WIN! WIN! WIN! urged the one-armed bandits as the oranges and lemons spun round and round, but as far as Harry could tell, for all the occasional tinkling of coins in pay-trays, time after time the slaves lost, lost, lost.
He was on the point of abandoning his search when he saw a face he recognised. Ray Brill’s photograph had appeared in several of Ken Cafferty’s newspaper clippings: Harry guessed it was a publicity shot taken during the heyday of the Brill Brothers, perhaps by Benny Frederick himself. But Ray had become old before his time. His slick dark hair had thinned and the sallow cheeks and boxer’s nose were now patterned with dark red thread veins. Although he could be little more than fifty years old, he looked as though he had long since qualified both for a bus pass and a spell at the Betty Ford Clinic.
He was juggling twenty-pence pieces in his left hand and pressing buttons on a poker game machine with his right, as absorbed in the task as a scientist engrossed in calculations of infinite complexity.
‘Ray Brill?’
He spun round as if an invisible puppeteer had jerked his string. ‘What d’you want? Can’t you see I’m busy?’ The husky tones that had once sung poignantly of heartbreak had become harsh with the passing of the years and he spoke with the faint habitual slur of a man seldom laid low by drink but never wholly sober.
‘My name’s Devlin. I’ve come from Liverpool to talk to you.’
‘Oh yeah? You know who I am?’
‘I have one of your records at home. “Blue On Blue”.’
‘What d’you want? My fucking autograph?’
‘I’d like to talk to you about Carole Jeffries.’
Mention of the girl’s name seemed to concentrate his mind. ‘What is this? Why all the fuss about a bit of skirt who died thirty years ago?’
‘You’ve spoken to a man called Ernest Miller.’
‘What if I have?’ Beneath the truculence, Harry sensed unease.
‘Miller’s dead, but I…’
‘Dead?’ He propped himself against the game machine as if in need of support. ‘You’re having me on.’
‘I wish I were. He collapsed over the weekend. I was his solicitor and…’
‘So you’re a brief,’ said Ray Brill scornfully. He made it sound like a confession to unspeakable crime. ‘What d’you need to talk to me about Carole for?’
‘Ernest Miller learned that Carole wasn’t strangled by Smith, the man who was sentenced for the murder. I’d like to find the man who did kill her.’
Harry gave Ray Brill a searching glance, but to his surprise the man seemed almost to relax. It was as if he had expected the conversation might take a different turn. ‘Can’t help you.’
‘Something’s on your mind, though. What is it?’
Ray Brill gave a harsh bark of laughter. ‘Nothing. Certainly not you, Mister Harry Devlin.’
‘You and Carole were drifting apart, weren’t you? You’d had your fun, you were getting tired of her. Did she ever make your temper snap?’
‘What are you suggesting — that I murdered the little cow? Don’t you know, smartarse? I had an alibi.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard that. But are you saying you wouldn’t like to find out who really murdered her?’
At a nearby machine a young boy hit the jackpot and whooped with delight. Ray Brill fiddled with the money in his hand and finally said, ‘Smith did it. Everyone knows that.’
‘No, Ray, he was innocent. Someone else strangled Carole, I promise you. Does that shock you? After all, there once was a time when she meant something to you.’
‘If I lost sleep over every girl I’ve screwed, I’d never have another decent night’s kip in my life.’
His sneer provoked Harry. An electronic rifle roared in his ear and he found himself shouting to make himself heard. ‘She’d found another boyfriend, hadn’t she? That’s what really hurt you. For once, the great pop star was going to get the elbow himself. Did you hate that? Did you crack on that you were the one giving her the push? How jealous were you, Ray?’
The noise died down and Ray Brill gave him a savage glare. ‘You’re fucking crazy. There was no-one else. Now why don’t you piss off out of here?’
Harry shrugged and made his way to the exit. There was no point in arguing with a man in such a mood. He already had the vague feeling that Ray had said something significant. Besides he had seen through the fury in the bloodshot eyes. No question about it: Ray Brill had something to hide.
‘You’ve been seduced,’ said Harry to his partner at the end of the afternoon. They were standing in his office, their arms full of glossy brochures. ‘I never thought it would happen, but you’ve succumbed to the wiles of a silver-tongued charmer. Does Heather know?’
For the first time that he could ever remember, the big man blushed. He spoke hurriedly, as if to cover confusion. ‘You don’t seem to realise that what Benny Frederick is telling us about video as a practice development tool makes plenty of sense. We need to promote ourselves more effectively to potential clients.’
‘I can’t see the people I act for queuing up at the television lounge in Walton Jail to watch us.’
‘I was thinking more of businessmen in the Round Table,’ his partner said impatiently.
‘You’re saying they have pronounced criminal tendencies?’
Jim snorted. ‘You simply never meant to treat this meeting seriously, did you?’
‘You couldn’t be more wrong. I’m glad Benny’s so talkative. I’m dying to ask him about the Carole Jeffries case. Now that really is a matter of life and death. I’d just like you to get this marketing malarkey out of your system, that’s all.’
A resigned sigh. ‘We’d better go back. He’ll be wondering what we’ve been talking about. I take it your answer is no, then?’
‘Not so fast, I want to keep his interest. Let me handle this my way.’
‘Didn’t the last person you said that to get twelve years?’
Harry grinned. ‘For Chrissake, he was an armed robber. Bloody lucky not to get fifteen. Now let’s have another chat with Mr Frederick.’
They returned to Jim’s room, where Benny Frederick was glancing around, taking in the ordered mound of correspondence as well as the framed certificates on the wall. He had darting eyes the colour of coal and Harry felt sure they would not miss much. His hair was still the same anarchic mass of dark curls it had been during his heyday as a photographer and his slim frame seemed not to carry an ounce of fat. At a distance he would have passed for a man of thirty rather than of fifty plus.
‘Had a chance to talk things over?’
‘We’re having a spot of trouble identifying our unique selling point,’ said Harry. ‘Maybe we could put our cards on the table and adopt the slogan Cheap Advice For Those Who Can’t Afford Better.’
Jim raised his eyes to the heavens but Benny simply giggled and said, ‘I realise you’d need to contain costs. I’m not suggesting a remake of Ben Hur.’
‘ Carry On, Crusoe and Devlin might be closer to the mark. Anyway, we need to mull it over. Thanks for sparing your time and talking to us. We do appreciate it.’