The Devil in Disguise by Martin Edwards

words of condolence to her at the graveside, she had burst into uncontrollable weeping. Grief took different people in different ways, but when she put her handkerchief away, he noticed that her small dark eyes were as hard and unemotional as pieces of coal.
    Outside the magistrates’ court, the wild-eyed vagrant the local lawyers called Davey Damnation was in full cry. He was a cadaverous figure who had been hanging around the city for months and his knowledge of the Book of Revelation surpassed even Harry’s familiarity with The Big Sleep .
    â€˜And the city had no need of the sun!’
    â€˜Thought you were a prophet of doom, not a weather forecaster,’ Harry murmured. But out of a strange mixture of habit and superstition, he tossed a few coins into the battered hat which Davey kept at his feet. The response was less than euphoric.
    â€˜He that is unjust, let him be unjust still!’
    Harry grinned. ‘That’s no way to talk about the chairman of the bench.’
    Davey glared. If he had ever possessed a sense of humour, it must have been worn away by years of living rough. His age was unguessable: perhaps early forties, but he had the weathered flesh of a man twenty years older. He drew in his breath, but before he could launch into another diatribe, Harry hurried into the building. When he emerged a couple of hours later, he had secured an acquittal for one client and a paltry fine with time to pay for another. The clouds had rolled away, too. Perhaps it was going to be his day.
    Davey thought otherwise. He jabbed his forefinger at Harry as if pointing out a bag thief on an identity parade.
    â€˜And the smoke of their torment ascendeth up for ever and ever: and they have no rest day nor night.’
    The prophet’s understanding of the difficulties faced by the local legal profession was remarkably acute, Harry decided. He strolled down Dale Street in the direction of the waterfront. The river was quiet, as usual these days. More freight was put through the Port of Liverpool now than at any time in its history, but the supertankers lacked the romance of the old days, when the world’s ships had sailed here. He sighed and turned into the Albert Dock complex. The Queer Fish was a small restaurant boat moored outside Gladstone Pavilion that offered snacks and meals to tourists and a wealth of gossip to locals. As Harry stepped on board, the proprietor hailed him like a returning prodigal.
    â€˜If it isn’t Harry Devlin! How super to see you again. Where have you been hiding yourself?’
    What would be an effusive greeting from anyone else was par for the course with the rubicund matelot standing by the kitchen door. Harry knew that the warmth of his welcome was genuine. Dusty Rhodes loved people and good food in equal measure. He had once been a cook in the Royal Navy, but nowadays running the Queer Fish was as close as he came to a life on the ocean waves. His affectionate nature had led to an incident resulting in his dishonourable discharge, but in the safer waters of the Albert Dock he was able to indulge his passions to his heart’s content.
    â€˜Yeah, long time no see. I’ve invited Jonah Deegan along.’ Dusty knew the detective, who was always happy to have lunch here if a client could be found to foot the bill. ‘Any chance of a quiet table for two?’
    â€˜Your wish is my command. Follow me.’ Dusty looked back over his shoulder. ‘Old Jonah, eh? So is the game afoot, as Sherlock would say?’
    Harry took a seat. ‘Ask no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.’
    Dusty pouted. ‘Spoilsport. Ah, here’s the man himself.’
    Harry glanced towards the door. Jonah Deegan was hobbling towards him. The old man suffered badly from arthritis and was in the queue for a hip replacement. But Jonah on one leg was still more effective than most inquiry agents on two: he had the priceless gift of being able to accept nothing at