‘But that changed after Carole died, didn’t it?’
‘Yes, he went to pieces. Nervous breakdown; drink; drugs too, I suspect. Certainly he died of an overdose. In the weeks and months after the murder, I called on them several times. I was as shell-shocked by what had happened as anyone.’ He paused, as if debating exactly what to say next. ‘In a sense I thought Carole’s death might have brought us all even closer together, but Kathleen was fiercely protective of Guy and, however selfishly, I began to feel excluded. As for Guy, he seemed for a time to have lost the will to live, but she helped him survive for another fifteen years. Long before then, he was lost to the Labour cause: even on election night in the October of that year, he stayed at home with Kathleen and refused every invitation to join the rest of us as we celebrated our victory.’
Doxey shook his head. ‘He started working again eventually and wrote the occasional article. But the spark had gone. It was as if almost overnight a young Turk had transformed into a weary elder statesman. I sat in on one or two of his public lectures during the late sixties and early seventies, but he’d become rambling, forgetful and bereft of ideas. Harold Wilson’s people were dubbed Yesterday’s Men, but the description fitted nobody better than Guy Jeffries himself. I last saw him during that dreadful winter of ’78-’79, with rubbish piled high in the streets and the dead left unburied. So much for our socialist dream, I said to him. Both of us realised the Tories were likely to regain power and the prospect proved too much for poor Guy. His health was ruined, he had nothing left to live for. Suicide must have seemed the easy way out.’
‘And Kathleen? How did she cope during those difficult years?’
‘I don’t think I’d claim I’ve ever really understood her. She’s strong, but quiet, and I’ve never seen her face betray a single emotion in all the years I’ve known her. I’m sure she was shattered by Carole’s death, but I’ve never heard her utter the girl’s name from that day to this. I think it was her way of blocking the tragedy out of her mind. Yet I will say this, Mr Devlin. I have always admired her.’
Doxey exhaled and sat back in his chair. He had seemed tense throughout their conversation but now he was beginning to relax. He reminded Harry of a politician who has seen off the sharpest questions at a press conference and has started to wax lyrical about the contribution made to his success by a devoted wife and family. The time had come to discard the velvet gloves.
‘But not quite as much as you admired Carole?’
Doxey stared at him. ‘I’m not sure I follow your meaning.’
‘She was in love with you, wasn’t she? I presume she didn’t lack encouragement.’
‘That is an outrageous suggestion! She was only sixteen!’
Harry was aware of Kim giving his shins a warning kick under the table, but it was too late to change direction. ‘I’m sorry you see it like that, Sir Clive. I’m not accusing you of discreditable conduct. But I am told that, on the day of her death, Carole Jeffries had intended to propose to you.’
‘Enough!’ Doxey rose clumsily to his feet. ‘I’m not prepared to listen to any more of this! Kim, I’m sorry, but I must wish you goodnight. It is late and I must return to my hotel.’ He turned to Harry. ‘As for you, Mr Devlin, I applaud your intentions. I have no doubt you mean well. But in my view that does not entitle you to make offensive insinuations about my personal conduct.’ And with that, he strode briskly away.
Harry gave Kim a rueful grin. ‘A picture of injured dignity, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘My sources, as the journalists would say, are impeccable. Let me buy you another drink and I’ll tell you all about it.’
He brought her up to date with the latest developments and was rewarded by the absorption with which she listened. When he had finished she asked what he made of it all.
‘I don’t believe your friend Sir Clive. I think he was involved in some way with Carole Jeffries.’
She leaned closer to him. ‘And what do you deduce from that?’
The crowd in the bar was thinning out. He glanced at his watch and said awkwardly, ‘Look, we’re going to be chucked out of here soon. My flat’s two minutes away. Would you like to come round for a coffee and I’ll explain the way my mind’s working?’
She smiled and said, ‘You make it sound like an offer no woman could refuse.’
He felt himself blushing. He hadn’t meant to proposition her; his head was already spinning as a result of what Doxey had said, for he thought he was close to understanding the reason for Carole’s death.
A few seconds passed as Kim watched him with a wry look on her face. Then the pager in his pocket began to bleep. He fumbled for it and, with a stammered excuse, hurried to the payphone next to the exit door. When he returned a couple of minutes later, it was with an overwhelming sense of despair.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘Patrick Vaulkhard had better tear up his script,’ he said bitterly. ‘He won’t be needing it again. The call was from Jeannie Walter, she wants me to go over and meet her right now. Kevin is in hospital with a police guard ringing the operating theatre. A couple of hours ago, he fell through a skylight while taking part in an armed robbery at a Customs warehouse.’
Chapter Twenty
Tears had streaked the mascara on Jeannie Walter’s ravaged face and the damp marks glistened under the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital waiting room. She was pacing back and forth across the linoleum floor and chewing her fingernails with a desperate savagery. The police had called her away from a party and underneath the fur jacket she had bought on the day of the courtroom settlement she was wearing a tight black cocktail dress and little else. In this place of draughty echoing corridors her presence was as incongruous as that of a fan-dancer at a funeral.
‘He’s got less brain than a fucking sparrow,’ she said. ‘He had no need to do it, no need at all.’
She had been saying the same thing since Harry’s arrival. He had forborne to suggest that Kevin could not help it, that crime was in his blood, that he could no more give up wrongdoing than a junkie could forsake his needle. A few minutes earlier he had spoken to the policemen who were waiting for news of Kevin’s injuries. They were in confident mood: the operation to catch the warehouse thieves in the act had been a complete success. That one of those involved had sustained serious injuries while scurrying across a rooftop in a vain attempt to escape was scarcely cause for concern — especially once he had been identified as Kevin Walter, so recently the scourge of the South West Lancashire Major Enquiry Squad.
Apparently the police had received a tip-off: the job had been planned for months and presumably Kevin had not regarded the outcome of his court case as any reason for pulling out at a late stage. They even wondered if their informant had been jealous of Kevin’s success in the legal lucky dip. It didn’t matter — as well as him, they had six more of the city’s toughest career criminals under lock and key.
A doctor approached them. His manner was grave and he spoke in a sympathetic murmur. ‘Mrs Walter? My name’s Iqbal. I have just come down from the theatre. Can I speak to you in private for a moment?’
‘What’s the matter? Where’s Kev? What state is he in?’ Jeannie was on the point of seizing him by the lapels of his white coat.
The doctor put a restraining hand on her arm. ‘Mrs Walter, this is a difficult time for you, I realise. Please, let us find a room where we can talk together.’
She turned to Harry. ‘For Christ’s sake, why won’t they tell me anything?’
Seldom had he felt so helpless. Gently, he said, ‘Talk to the doctor, Jeannie, he’ll tell you as much as he knows.’