All the Lonely People (15 page)

Chapter Eighteen

“How's the invalid?”

Brenda's voice, reassuring as the dawn chorus, wafted in from the hall. Harry lifted his face from a pillow which she must have slipped beneath his head after he had fallen asleep on the sofa. The slight movement sent a flash of pain tearing down the side of his face with the sudden force of an electric shock. Unable to stifle a groan, he gritted his teeth and checked the clock. Ten to eight.

She appeared in the doorway, slim and business-like in a grey suit. “I thought I would pop in before I went to work.”

“Thanks.” Harry hated the grudging note that he heard in his voice, but at present he felt like an animal wanting to lick its wounds; he would rather have been left alone. Knowing her kindness and concern was genuine and that he ought to be experiencing gratitude simply burdened him with an extra weight of guilt.

“Let's have a look at you.” As she walked up to the sofa, Harry levered himself into a sitting position, moving as cautiously as a vertigo sufferer on a high wire. The effort was rewarded by a burning sensation that travelled from shoulder to waist and a renewed throbbing within his chest.

“You're still in pain,” she said.

Confirmation was superfluous and heroic denials were not in his line, so he kept quiet and steeled himself to ignore the aching of his ribs. But his face must have betrayed him with a give-away grimace, for Brenda looked at him for a moment and then compressed her mouth in a determined manner.

“I'm going to call the doctor.”

“No!” The firmness of his reply surprised even him.

“But you may have a fracture. There might be some internal damage.”

“I played soccer for years, Brenda, I'm used to knocks. There's bad bruising, a few cuts and bumps, but not much more.”

“You look as though you've done fifteen rounds in a heavyweight bout.”

“I'll live.”

She leaned over him, gazing down earnestly. “Aren't you going to tell me what it was all about?”

“Nothing to tell. A common or garden mugging. Happens every day. And night.”

Exasperation flickered over her lightly powdered face. “Oh no, you don't convince me like that. You really think I'm naive, Harry, don't you? Griff said . . .”

“Never mind what Griff said.”

“That young guard, Colin, may have saved your life. Griff told me that you could have been killed if he hadn't come upon the scene. You must call the police, Harry, don't you understand?”

“And tell them what? That I was jumped by a man in a balaclava, someone I couldn't recognise again if he walked into my office and asked for help with his social security claim? No, Brenda, there's nothing to be gained from involving the police. They'll never catch him.”

“Certainly not if you don't give them a chance,” she said. For the first time in their acquaintance, he detected signs of temper in her. He found that oddly satisfying, as if at last he had broken through the surface layers of good neighbourliness and struck the real woman underneath. With new interest, he looked at her as she said, “There's some other reason why you are so reluctant, isn't there? Connected with the murder of your wife. Am I right?”

She was more perceptive than he had guessed. He said, “I don't know what you mean.”

A vexed sigh. “You don't fool me. But you won't let anyone help, will you? You're obstinate, Harry Devlin, you're one of the most pig-headed men I've ever met.”

He had to smile. “I couldn't disagree with that.”

More gently, she said, “It's not always a bad fault. I'm stubborn myself at times. When I make up my mind about something, I don't let go without a battle.” Her gaze dwelt on him for a little while. Finally, she said, “I won't nag you any more. At least, not yet. I have to go now. Duty calls. Is there anything I can get you? No? Well, think again about seeing a doctor. And the police.”

“You've been very good to me.”

Unexpectedly, she coloured. “That's my pleasure,” she said.

After she had gone, he dozed for a while. Later, he rang the office to break the news of his latest absence, carefully making sure that he spoke to Suzanne rather than to Lucy or Jim, who might have added their words of wisdom about medical attention and calling the police. One well-meant harangue was enough for this morning.

Getting up, he inspected the damage in the mirror, reminding himself that ugliness was only skin deep. Anyway, he had never been a Jeremy Irons. The facial damage looked mostly superficial. His left eye had darkened, as Colin had predicted, and his cheeks were red and chafed. Yet it had almost been so much worse. Thanks to Sabre, the masked assailant had left the job half done.

He saw no reason to shift from his instant decision of the previous night not to contact the police. Had his injuries been more serious, he would have had no choice but to seek medical help and, no doubt, to involve Skinner and company. But a doctor or policeman would want to make sure he took no active part in the pursuit of Liz's murderer and he was not ready to give up the chase. Was he risking another, life-threatening attack? He couldn't dismiss the possibility out of hand, yet he had no doubt that he was doing the right thing. The memory of Liz saying, “I'm frightened, Harry,” surfaced in his mind and he told himself that he was doing the only thing.

The telephone rang. Before he could speak, Maggie's breathless voice asked, “Are you all right?”

“Still in one piece, yes.”

“I rang your office. They told me you'd been involved in an accident. What happened?”

He gave her an edited account of the previous night's events, not implying that the incident amounted to more than a street mugging, but she saw through his clumsy subterfuge at once.

“Harry, I'm worried about you. Mick Coghlan killed Liz, he must have. Now he wants you dead.”

Her vehemence took him aback. Before he could frame a reply, she added, “I wanted to see you, anyway. I called at the Dock Brief yesterday evening, and at your flat, but you weren't there.”

He remembered what the barmaid at the pub had said. Subsequent events had driven it out of his mind. “What is it, Maggie?”

“Liz was being followed shortly before she was killed.”

For the first time that morning, he became fully alert. “How do you know?”

“I went to see Matt Barley. Talking to you the other day made me want to find out more. He told me you'd been to see him. He'd been mulling things over too. I could tell he was holding something back. That was it. Liz had confided in him, said she was worried sick.”

And, Harry suddenly recalled, she had told him as well on that Wednesday night. All at once he could hear, as distinctly as if she were standing beside him, her breathless tone: “He's even had me followed. I'm scared, Harry, I swear it. I believe - I believe he wants to kill me.” He was bitter with self-reproach, realising it hadn't sunk in because he'd thought she was embroidering. Lying in bed in the early hours of Thursday morning, he had had a hazy recollection of the question he had meant to put to her: “Exactly who has been following you?” But again the thought had drifted from his mind.

Maggie said, “Are you still there? Liz told Matt she'd seen the man follow her about the city centre. At first she reckoned nothing to it, but when he kept turning up she started to get worried. All she could think of was that
Coghlan had discovered she was playing fast and loose and had set someone to check what she was up to. Don't you agree the police ought to know this, could it . . .”

Piercing as a banshee wail, the doorbell interrupted her.

“Look, I must go,” said Harry. I'll talk to Matt. Thanks for telling me.”

“Harry - ” his sister-in-law's voice was edged with emotion “ - it must have been Michael Coghlan, it must have been! If this wasn't an ordinary street crime, there's no other possible explanation, is there?”

It was as if she were seeking reassurance, rather as though she did not actually believe it herself. There was a strange, desperate quality in her conversation that he couldn't fathom.

“I can't imagine why anyone else . . .” he began. The bell persisted in its summons. “Sorry, Maggie, must answer the door. Talk to you again soon.”

He hurried to the door. His visitor was Jim Crusoe. The grizzly bear's face gaped at the sight of him. “Dragged you out of bed, have I? My God, look at you. Someone's taken a dislike to you, old son, to inflict that kind of damage.”

They sat down in the lounge and Harry told his partner what had happened. As he explained, Jim's natural calm dissolved into concern. “I don't like to say I told you so, but . . .”

Harry made an impatient gesture with his hand. “All right, all right.”

Crusoe threw a look of despair at the ailing cheese plant, as if in search or moral support. “This isn't
Boy's Own.
You'll get more than your fingers burned if you keep playing with fire. Leave it while you have the chance.”

Not for the first time during the past few days, Harry said simply, “She was my wife. I can't leave it.”

“Liz could never belong to any one man.”

Goaded, Harry said, “What did you know about her?”

“Plenty.”

After a long pause Harry said, “Meaning what, exactly?”

“She tried it on with me, old son, believe it or not. Even me, conventional-to-the-core Crusoe. The happily married man. I think she saw me as a challenge. She had that in common with you, Harry - she could never resist a skirmish, however long the odds against. That night the four of us went to the Philharmonic, remember? She tried to set up an assignation then, when she and I went up to the bar . . .”

“I see,” said Harry.

“Doubtful. Anyway, I turned her down. I won't pretend it was the simplest decision I've ever made or had to carry out, but it wasn't the hardest either. And I wasn't only thinking about Heather and the kids. I may not be Robert Redford, and she was a gorgeous woman, but anyone could see Liz was trouble. And this happened eighteen months before she left you, mind, long before she got her hooks into Mick Coghlan. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to sound pious. Fact is, Liz couldn't help herself any more than you could help idolising her. She was your blind spot, Harry, from start to finish.”

Harry stared at his partner's implacable expression. It was the longest speech he had ever heard Jim Crusoe make. A wave of fury swept through him, carrying with it a suspicion born of bitterness, not logic. He almost asked: Did you really go to that football game on Thursday night - or did you kill Liz in Leeming Street instead? But he choked the question back. No one in his senses would cast Jim as a murderer.

Presently, he said, “I'll be back in the office soon. Maybe tomorrow if I get the chance.”

“Forget it. We can cope. I want you fit, not acting like a clapped-out Rumpole.”

Harry's ribs were beginning to hurt again. He said, “Thanks for coming over.”

“No trouble. I'll see myself out. You stay there. Do the crossword, get better. Everything else - put it out of your mind.”

Alone again, Harry slumped back in his armchair. Dwelling on what Jim had said was pointless. Whatever her faults, Liz hadn't deserved to die. At least now he understood Jim's hostility towards her. It was easy to imagine his partner's scorn for her unfaithfulness and his unease at being tempted. But Jim was no fool and he was the only incorruptible man Harry had ever met.

Rubbing his eyes, he forced himself to concentrate on what Maggie had said. She, at least, had dropped her opposition to his own investigations into the murder, although he didn't know why. Surely she was right in thinking that Coghlan must be responsible for the killing? The man who had pursued Liz might have been a hanger-on from the gym, perhaps Harry's own balaclava-masked assailant from the previous night, or some other hired hand. And, as Harry pondered, the identity of another candidate occurred to him: the man with the bulging eyes, the man who had arrived late at the Ferry Club on Thursday night. Froggy Evison.

Chapter Nineteen

“Shirelle, isn't it?”

The barmaid lifted her blonde head from bored scrutiny of the pump that was pouring out a pint of bitter. Tonight her earrings were magenta spheroids which danced at the sudden movement. Hostility flashed in her eyes as she said, “What's it to you?”

The Ferry Club was quiet as yet, with just a handful of women in short skirts and a couple of spotty youths perched on stools adjacent to the bar. The fair-haired keyboard player was slaughtering an old Coffin and King number while the drummer leafed through an old copy of
Melody Maker
and surreptitiously picked his nose. Harry said, “Where's Froggy this evening?”

She pushed the glass across the bar. “His night off, innit?”

“Any idea where I can find him?”

Suspicion gave way to unvarnished hostility. “You a busy?”

“Not me. Just a paying customer. I was in here last Thursday night, remember? Froggy spilt beer over me. That isn't why I'm looking for him, though. Our last conversation was interrupted. I'd like to finish it.”

Weighing up his battered face, the barmaid said, “Someone wanted to finish you, by the look of things.”

“Where's he likely to be?”

“Haven't a clue.”

Harry stifled a yawn. He'd spent most of the day either asleep or resting and still he felt kitten-weak. There was work to be done, though. In the past few hours he had convinced himself that the man called Froggy could lead him to Liz's murderer. Passing the woman a ten-pound note, he said, “Keep the change. Where does he live?”

Tucking the note under her sleeve, she glanced quickly to right and left. Nobody was watching; the prostitutes were arguing amongst themselves and the young men were pretending not to be listening. Nevertheless, Shirelle spoke out of the side of her mouth, a habit perhaps picked up from watching too many black and white thriller movies on late night television. “Baden Powell Street. By the Municipal Baths.” Unable to contain her curiosity, she murmured, “Why are you after Froggy if you're not a busy? Most people are glad to steer clear of him.”

Harry ignored the question. A second tenner materialised in the palm of his hand, peeping at her from between his fingers. “Tell me, Mick Coghlan - is he a customer here? Does Froggy do any work for him?”

Shirelle considered the banknote. He could tell that she was torn between an instinctive desire to tell a stranger nothing and the timeless attraction of easy money. Even her earrings seemed to flutter with uncertainty. In the end, she opted for compromise. “Coghlan? The name rings a bell. But I don't think he comes here.”

The tenner inched towards her. “How does Froggy spend the rest of his time? Where might I bump into him?”

The barmaid sniffed. “Haven't the faintest. The less I have to do with that feller the better. He loiters in bed till dinner-time as far as I know. After that, you're as likely to find him in the bookies' as anywhere.”

“What number Baden Powell Street?”

“How would I know, sunshine? I'm not the rent collector or the bailiff.” A mascara-masked woman at the far end of the bar leaned over and muttered something unintelligible. “Look, I've got a job to do, okay?” Shirelle held out her hand and the moment Harry slipped the note into it she swept away to serve the thirsty tart.

He sipped his drink slowly, keeping the entrance in view. More customers drifted in, the usual mixture of navvies, sales reps, divorcees and teenage kids out to spend their dolemoney. Another girl arrived on duty behind the bar. The keyboard player began to mangle the hits of Stevie Wonder. The suave manager whom Harry had seen on Thursday night put in an appearance, marching around with an easy air of authority and self-regard, not neglecting to loop an arm around the barmaids' shoulders when he exchanged a word with them.

Harry finished his beer. It was ten o'clock. His damaged arm and ribs were reminding him that without the timely intervention of the security guard's Alsatian, he would have been in intensive care rather than back on the booze. There was nothing to detain him here. He had had enough for one day.

He wandered out of the club and back to the Empire Dock. The anti-climax of failing to pick up Froggy, coupled with the aching of his body, had wearied him. Tonight no masked thug barred the way to the brightly lit entrance hall of the old warehouse, although anxiety knotted his stomach as he crossed the Strand and he was glad to nod at Griff and say with casual affability, “Unscathed for once, see? Goodnight.”

Moving quietly along the thick-pile carpet of the third floor corridor, he tip-toed past Brenda Rixton's room and was about to enter the sanctuary of his own home when he became aware of footsteps approaching from the far end of the passage. Looking up, he saw Brenda walking towards him.

She smiled readily at him, although he sensed at once that her mood was one of strained patience. “I spent the evening with Joyce Mahoney at three-oh-nine,” she said. The name meant nothing to Harry; he was unacquainted except by sight with the rest of his neighbours. “How are you feeling? Have you been to the hospital this evening?”

“Afraid not,” he said.

As she drew up by his side he could tell that she was smelling the alcohol on his breath. The lines of her face hardened, not so much with disapproval as with sadness. “I might have known.”

“I decided to go out for a meal,” he said. True enough as far as it went. He'd eaten a mixed grill in one of those dependable, boring steak restaurants with uniform decor and waitresses chosen for shapeliness rather than speed of service. After sinking a bladderful of coffee he'd strolled to the Ferry in search of the man with the bulging eyes.

Plaintively, Brenda said, “I brought something back for the two of us. I didn't think you would be fit enough to go gadding around. Roast chicken and a salad. But even at half-seven you weren't here.” No, he'd been in the mood for a couple of drinks before eating. “In the end I shared with Joyce instead.”

So Brenda possessed in abundance that female knack of imposing guilt, thought Harry. With some women, it seemed as natural as breathing. Conscious of the constricting pressure of unnecessary remorse, he said defensively, “Sorry, I didn't realise. It was kind of you.”

“No, it doesn't matter.” Thus neatly was the point scored.

In the ensuing lull in the conversation, he felt awkward as well as ungrateful, scratching around for something placatory to say. “I was just going to have a nightcap. I suppose you wouldn't . . .”

“Thank you, I'd like that.”

Once inside his flat, she quizzed him about his injuries. He tried to be dismissive without conveying the impression of nobly suffering in silence. After pouring them each a glass of Grand Marnier, he settled back in his armchair. Brenda was on the sofa, her shoes kicked off, legs tucked beneath her. Good legs in sheer tights, he noticed. Her fine hair shimmered in the glow cast by the wall-lights.

Raising her glass, she said, “To a rapid recovery.”

The rich taste of the liqueur kept the two of them quiet for a minute or so. The central heating had been programmed to come on four hours earlier and the air in the room was warm and dry. The floods of pain that had washed through his body all day were beginning to subside.

“Tired?” Brenda asked.

“Mmm.”

“You shouldn't have gone gallivanting,” she said, but not unkindly. “You really should take more care of yourself.”

He didn't reply, but presently sensed a movement in front of him and looked out through narrowed eyelids. Brenda was kneeling in front of him. She eased off his shoes and socks and began to rub his feet. Smiling, she said, “You don't have to wake up. Relax for once. That feels nice, doesn't it?”

“Yes.”

How long she carried on, he didn't know. His mind was emptying, like a jug tipped upon its side. All the grieving and the hating and the riddles of the past few days had started to drain away. The policemen's questions, the squalor of the Nye, his brief, foolish yearning for Angie O'Hare - none were more than faint memories. For him, the world had shrunk to this warm room and the tender touch of Brenda's fingers running rhythmically up and down his soles.

He heard her say, “It's late.”

Unable to camouflage a yawn, he prised open his eyes. She was leaning over him now, her delicate perfume noticeable for the first time that evening. Her jersey-clad breasts rested against his chest.

“I've been left in the lurch too,” she said. “I think I can guess how you feel about losing your wife. I've imagined being with Les each day since he walked out. For long enough I dreamed he'd come back one day, though I've more or less learned not to delude myself any more. God only knows, it takes an age to adjust. I suppose something died in my life, too, that dreadful day.”

She was sliding her fingers through the tangle of his hair. “I don't believe in moaning about bad luck. Perhaps it's true that life is what you make it. I ought to grab what I can whilst there's still time. I thought you . . .”

Her voice trailed away and he mumbled, “Go on.”

“No,” she said with a new briskness. “How stupid I am. I can tell the agony that you've been through these past few days and I mustn't add to it. It's time for me to go, before - well, never mind.”

She kissed him gently on the cheek. His eyes closed and he felt the tip of her tongue touch his skin, her body pressing against his. Then she withdrew.

“Goodnight, Harry.”

And as the door closed behind her, he was conscious of a sense of loss.