Yesterday's Papers by Martin Edwards

up requires a computer.’
    â€˜You’re a man after my own heart.’
    â€˜I know, that’s what bothers me.’
    The papers comprised old cuttings on which dates had been scrawled in ballpoint and a few flimsy sheets of typed stories in draft. Harry was immediately entranced. The first item in the pack, headed GIRL STRANGLED IN SEFTON PARK, set the shock-horror tone for everything that followed. During the first few hours of the investigation, the police had given very little away and Harry, digressing for a moment, marvelled that in those days the public respect for the bobby on the beat had apparently been so much stronger than today, when every force had its own slick public relations team. Perhaps there was a lesson in that.
    Even at a distance of thirty years, he could almost hear the exultant shouts in the newsroom when the journalists learned that the victim was not only pretty but also had a famous father. It must have seemed like a stroke of luck, giving an added dimension to a tragic killing, making it certain that the story would run and run.
    Guy Jeffries’ photograph appeared in many of the cuttings that followed. Even in smudged black-and-white portraits that might have been taken by a boy scout using a box brownie for the very first time, Guy’s appearance was compelling. With his thick shock of dark hair, even teeth and aquiline nose, he gave the impression that he expected admiration and flattery as his due, that he had no doubt he was a man of destiny. There was just one picture that told a different story; unlike the others, it had been taken on the day after the murder, when a persistent paparazzo had caught him leaving his home by the back door. His head was bowed and his shoulders hunched as if in acknowledgement of defeat. A quote on one of the cuttings seemed to capture his mood: I should never have let her go . Harry felt a flash of sympathy; he knew all too well the pain of losing a loved one to a sudden and senseless slaying.
    In the reports, Jeffries was described variously as a celebrated academic, a best-selling political author and a noted left-wing thinker. His two principal books, Our Sterile Society and The Identity of a Socialist , received more mentions than a thousand press releases, launch parties and literary luncheons could guarantee. Profiles traced the upward graph of his career: from being the cleverest boy in the school, through outstanding achievement as a student, to a position of eminence in the intellectual, literary and political firmaments. Like his friend Clive Doxey, he had been a private adviser to Harold Wilson and there was even talk that he might stand for Parliament when the scandal-wracked Conservatives finally called a general election. The world was his for the taking.
    Yet beneath the recitation of Jeffries’ accomplishments and the florid accounts of his distress at the loss of his only child, Harry thought he detected a trace of journalistic schadenfreude .
    He said as much to Ken, who scratched his nose. ‘From what I can gather, he was never flavour of the month at our paper. He and Doxey both used to write soapbox columns for the other lot and the editor we had in those days equated a socialist government with barbarians at the gates of Rome. Besides, Jeffries had it all, didn’t he? Good looks and a great career. Nothing delights a lesser mortal more than to see a paragon finding out the hard way that life can be unkind to everyone.’
    Harry gave him a sharp look but said nothing. He flicked through the pieces of paper, pausing whenever he came to a new twist in the tale or a photograph of one of the cast of characters. Now and then he allowed himself to be sidetracked by snippets from other stories on the reverse of the clippings. They gave him a flavour of the times. The Great Train Robbers were on trial; in South Africa, a lawyer named Mandela had been jailed for life. Mary Quant said that Paris fashion was out of